039: Dream a Little Dream of Me
by Rhiononon
Summary: AU of Fiercely Cold. Zev/MCousland. Do me a favour - the next time I dream this, could you just hit me over the head until it gets through to me?
1. Chapter 1

And as always: Reviews make me squee!

And yes, I know I'm totally "flooding" the DAO gates at the moment, but I'm totally behind in updating...oh well. Hopefully reviews and views will still come in? :hopeful:

Title: Dream a Little Dream of Me  
Author: Rhion & Briala (sorry I had a brainfart! :corrects mistake:)  
Rating: AO  
Summary: Do me a favour - the next time I dream this, could you just hit me over the head until it gets through to me?  
AN: For **briala** for a nice little Festivus thing. Random character mumbling by Ferox lead to this hypothetical thing that could have happened during the Blight. That has apparently spawned a story. More than thirty thousand in. Blarg. Why no, I don't have other things to do with my time... Moderately beta'd, but there's certainly going to be things that slipped through the cracks. :evil grin: Hello punnage, how are you?  
Contains: Dubcon, digital-anal, oral, slash  
Pairing: M!Cousland/Zevran.

XXX

The snow was falling in earnest and they weren't particularly well protected, but the camp was fine anyway, of which Ferox made doubly sure during the many times he couldn't sleep. The bonfire was larger than usual, and everyone had appropriate gear. But that didn't explain why there was a body in his bedroll, doubled into a tight ball with Horse whining, head on the form. Ferox only knew it was the elf because of the blanket atop Ferox's was green and mottled for camouflage and no one else's was like that.

Throat caught on a growl at the intrusion, Ferox entered fully and tied the tent flap closed. The fact that the assassin barely twitched made him growl more - it meant nothing good. Tugging off a glove, he pushed a hand beneath the blankets to find Zevran's face, and it was cool. Cursing he stripped away his own outer garments, piling them atop the supine form before crawling beneath the great weight in leggings and shirtsleeves. What had to be every scrap of clothing Zevran owned was bundled around him and still did nothing - obviously bundling up didn't help much if someone didn't produce much body heat in the first place.

Another check proved that yes, the Crow was still breathing. Prying at the layers of clothes, trying to work some of the warming air coming from he and Horse to where it was needed Ferox angrily wondered why nothing had been said. While layering was good, the shirts he touched were extremely thin, nearly what he would consider summer-weight, unfit for Ferelden autumns and certainly unwise for winter.

Teeth chattered and a grunt, the elf went stiff, assessing eyes finding his, everything clearly sluggish, "_Meldicion._A moment and I will be out of your way."

"No," snapping at him, Ferox continued peeling layers off and then arranging them beneath and above the assassin to try and insulate while providing the necessary heat. "Stay still."

Horse burrowed beneath the pile, sandwiching Zevran between them as the Crow began to shake in earnest, for once quiet. Even the brief chattering of teeth had stopped almost as soon as it started. Still it was a good sign that the assassin's temperature was steadily rising. In the night, drifting off to sleep, Ferox hoped that his end would be quick, the assassin's work finally finished.

Coming in from watch, Ferox found the elf in his pallet once more, Horse an even larger mound beside him. A few licks and the Crow awoke with a groan and curse, along with an accusation that the mabari hadn't awoken him until _after_Ferox was in the tent. Growling but resigned - until they found a town to buy better supplies, or bandits to kill and gather up their supplies - Zevran couldn't be allowed to remain alone, else he might not wake up ever again.

Checking and putting away the unneeded gear, piling anything possible atop the bedroll even as the assassin was trying to clamber free, Ferox snarled at him, "Lay back down."

"Why, Warden, you only have but to ask," it was sarcastic even as he did as told.

Even as wolves, bears, but mostly wolves, were skinned and their pelts left unsold so they could be layered for warmth, Zevran still wound up in Ferox's tent nightly. He kept to himself in the night beyond pressing his back against Ferox's side, arms looped around Horse's neck, face in the massive shoulder. And each day, Ferox awoke, vaguely disappointed that his eyes opened at all. If the assassin's plan was to lull him into a sense of safety, it wasn't necessary. Watches and hunting and chores were still done the same, in fact Ferox doubted anyone noticed Zevran's comings and goings - before the camp was awake, the elf would be gone.

Non-vital injuries were tended alone, or had been, but that was no longer the case. Zevran would crack a lid to see what Ferox was doing after entering the tent, sit up and set to work. No words were exchanged, the poke of needle deft and fast, or the wipe and pack of wounds surprisingly painless, all done without fuss. But that didn't make things easier, or make Ferox long for being out of the mountains and for enough gear for the damnable elf to require the services of someone with a bit of body-heat to spare.

Zevran slipped in from middle-watch, shuddering and shaking as Horse made room so that Ferox didn't have to move. That was going to have to change. The assassin shouldn't be out and exposed in the night with no one to double check he didn't freeze, and considering how he would be gone by the time Ferox awoke, that meant he was better suited to last watch.

Gritting his teeth as the elf got settled in, "I'm surprised you haven't turned your charm towards finding someone else to shove cold feet against."

A soft sigh of relief laden pain, hands rubbing vigorously at pale tinted ears, vaguely acerbic and rolled eyes, "Oh yes, I did not think of that. At all. Your sunny disposition was the first person that came to mind, Warden. Either I was laughed off or a threatened fire spell was nearly summoned."

"You need better quality clothes," as he began going over what had been collected.

"My clothes are of good quality - just unsuited to your frigid country," Zevran sighed scooting away to give more room, crowding Horse who didn't seem to mind the Crow at all.

The next night Ferox's tent was empty, including Horse. If it kept the elf from bothering him, Ferox could deal with it. But the next day the assassin's muscles apparently had been stiff from cold and the cornered drake had spun on the assassin as he crept up, even as Ferox sought to keep the overgrown lizard's attention on himself, like a flash striking forward and mauling through light leathers as Zevran sought to dodge. Wynne had her hands full that afternoon, impromptu camp set up, the Crow quipping and bothering the healer, expression smooth but eyes tight, bronze skin pale with blood loss.

That evening as Zevran looked over the new armour Ferox had handed coin over for, "My tent."

There was no choice for it, so Ferox resigned himself to it. Everyone worked together seamlessly, and he worked ever harder at being what each needed. Laying awake, the still recovering elf beside him, he stared at the ceiling of the tent. The watches had been long since adjusted, armour was supplied, clothing would be next. Zevran reminded him of nothing so much as a child that went out with just a light shirt in rain and snow when at the least several layers and a thick cloak would be needed. He also watched how the Antivan ate and having seen him in limited amount of clothing, it was obvious there wasn't even a token scrap of fat on the lean body, and that meant there was nothing at all to protect him and nothing extra to burn for vital interior heat. Some of the flesh sagged as though muscle mass and earlier stores had been lost or left to fade, a puzzle that Ferox didn't waste time on, instead just making himself sit beside the Crow to ensure that they ate the same amount and that when his own bowl was empty and refilled, so was Zevran's, and Ferox would just stare hard at any odd glance from the gesture.

Even when it came from a pair of amber eyes.

Wolf fur trimmed most of Zevran's clothes in short order, gaps well rimed with more. The next time they brought down a bear, the assassin gathered up the fat much to Alistair's disgust and confusion, the others figuring it for eccentricity, but Ferox was more surprised that the Crow knew that trick. Jiggling globules were in the stew the next meal, everyone too hungry to notice, but the thick taste of bear meat and extra fat was familiar. Outside of the tent, Zevran was his usual self, never shutting up, even as he toasted slices of meat beside the fire, separating a tub of the fat gathered earlier and working it into his armour all at the same time.

Normally Ferox valued the quiet and not having to hear the Crow ramble, at least when in the tent, but he asked, "If you knew how to do all that, why didn't you do it before?"

Zevran was checking the stitching on Ferox's cloak, adding an extra ruff of fur around the shoulders and neck, not looking up from the work, "Hmn, why indeed? I did not plan on an extended stay in Ferelden, Warden."

"That doesn't answer the question," growling, wanting the elf to just be straight out and tell him why he had been helpless when he clearly wasn't actually helpless.

"Ah, but it does. Perhaps expanded you will understand - I did not plan on an extended stay in _Thedas_either, yes?" An exasperated sigh came when Ferox didn't move or say anything, as he was trying to process what that might mean. "I had wished to fail in my contract, Warden. Throwing myself at a pair of Wardens, recruits or not as I have never heard of the order taking in the useless and weak, seemed a likely way of removing myself from this plane of existence. Is that answer sufficient enough to satisfy you?"

Snorting as his brow rose, "So why offer your services after you were beaten, only to give up in the snow?"

"Because that is not your business and is impertinent I should turn the question around, fierce one, and ask why you wish to die, yet continue onwards? The reasons cannot be all that different," for once the look sent his way was strange but easily identified - measuring and weighing each flicker. "But I did not give up in the cold, I merely did not complain or ask for things the way others have and seek to exceed the constraints placed upon me. There is a difference, Lord Cousland. You and I work with what we have, and ask for no more, and if failure happens because of it, then we were not good enough to survive it."

Taking his cloak from the Antivan's hands and pulling on his boots, Ferox yielded the tent.

Later Zevran came out, the time for last watch at hand. Snow was set to melt and boil, a handful of precious gathered herbs thrown in it to make it palatable. "My last mission, the one before this one, did not go well. No, that is to say it went well enough, but someone under my care died for foolish reasons. And I allowed it. Agreed to it even. As she lay there, her blood soaking my boots, I spit on her and the love she had sworn to me. Death would be the easy way out, even delivered at another's hands and would not allow me the justified suffering I deserve for what I did and did not do. Go to bed Warden. You will do no good to those who you lead if you are not remotely rested. Seeking death is all well and good so long as you do not drag others down with you."

In that case he did as instructed, just to escape.

Sufficient gear in place, warmer areas, at least relatively, of Ferelden gained, Ferox believed that for once he could sleep alone. But the damned elf was there, coming awake enough to groan and scoot, making room, just as he had every night since forever it felt like. Rubbing his temples Ferox had struggled, got nearly as far as taking off the outermost layers, before he couldn't take it and began to dress once more. A hand came out, brown fingers curling around his forearm and tugging him to the pallet.

"Sleep, my Warden."

Several times Ferox tried to switch tents - Zevran in Ferox's tent, Ferox in Zevran's. All that happened was twenty minutes after laying down, there was an elf and hound beside him. Then when he tried reversing that choice, still, within minutes, just as Ferox got settled in the Crow would show up, until he finally was resigned to having company. It went like that for so long Ferox no longer had the energy to growl every time he went to bed and when Zevran began sleeping facing him, an arm over his waist, forehead pressed to his shoulder, Ferox gave up. The growling didn't deter the damnable elf, arguing or seeking to put him off was like trying to tell the sun not to rise. Implacable as a coming dawn or sunset, the assassin was immovable except under his own will and power.

But it meant he was trapped, and if there was one thing that Ferox despised, it was being trapped. It didn't matter that snare was one of his own devising, or at least a design he had improved upon so that its hold so it didn't bite as deeply into his leg. It was still a trap and it held him with a loose arm and breath working its way through his sleeve as it slept.

Closing his eyes as Zevran finished winding a poultice laden bandage around his arm, Ferox growled. The elf didn't reply hands leaving his skin, but just as Ferox was about to grab his shirt to pull it back on, oddly slick palms slid over his shoulders. Going stiff, ready to question, the words stilled in his throat as thumbs dug into a tight group of muscles, somehow managing to make the knot loosen.

"What are you doing?" he finally managed as he was pressed down onto the combined bedrolls.

"Tchk, you are so tense, my dear Warden, it is criminal. Think of this as the same as tending to stitches and poultices, no more," steady and firm of voice and hands, Ferox couldn't stop himself from allowing it.

If this was how the Crow would finally end his misery, he could accept it, he guessed. It wouldn't be any different than the assassin slipping a blade between his ribs as he slept. When it became a nightly occurrence, Ferox was at a loss. But it wasn't...bad...he decided. So he allowed it with only token snarls. At some point the Crow had told him in no uncertain terms that since his legs were what carried the weight of armour, pack and body, he had to have access to those as well. Those were good reasons, along with the fact that walking throughout Ferelden, often having to backtrack or cut new trails, was what made him relinquish and give in to that order. He hadn't regretted that at least, as for once his legs quit screaming and even his feet felt less abused.

But Zevran asked for nothing, even then, his presence remaining constant and unending.

After returning to Ostagar during the nightly massage, Ferox was almost asleep, familiar with hands on his buttocks and the backs of his thighs, the weight settled and straddling him, a finger went somewhere where it _did not_belong. At least not Zevran's - but that was not anything he wished to think about. Coming awake quickly, ready to struggle, a palm pushed firmly on the small of his back.

"It is just a massage, Warden. Relax," Zevran's voice slid into his head, somehow like a deep drink of some dwarf's vile brew. "There is no need to be so tense."

Snarling, "I was not tense until -"

The finger slid in circling and rubbing as it slid in and out, silencing his words but not the growls. Or the anger. It didn't matter how good it felt, or how strangely relaxing, the choice had been removed. There was no way to fight. There was no defense. The only person to ever touch him like that was dead, gone, and this was wrong.

Strangling, "Stop."

The fingers stilled, tone conversational, "There is a saying that a man's soul is stored here -" a demonstrating stroke followed. "Love grief is pent up in this space, it needs to be released so that it does not turn to a festering wound." A long boned hand began kneading the small of Ferox's back soothingly, "It is nothing more than a healing touch, Warden. I will take care of you as you have taken care of me, nothing more, nothing less. Be angry and direct it later, for now, let me tend the wound and do what I can."

He was forced to vulnerability, to trust even a little. The surety and gentleness of the touch made it worse in some ways. Rory and he hadn't been anywhere near that experienced, they could find what felt good, but there were other things in those long gone touches. Want, desire. Zevran hadn't lied, it was the touch of a healer being used, no different than the massage of any other set of muscles. As the pressure built, his thoughts spiraled tighter, making him think, making him feel - all things he didn't want. Probably because he no longer knew how to handle that. Biting his tongue as he was struck by a sudden crash, Ferox wept bitter and angry tears - he hadn't wanted to think. To feel. But he had and it had been good and it had been frightening. Zevran's hands once more returned to the full body massage, seeking to give him something that Ferox couldn't understand at all. Not at the moment. Sure hands guided and helped him back into his trews as he fought to regain his scattered wits.

"You - you don't get to do that to me," hoarse with too many emotions, anger being the easiest, most palatable one to identify.

The Crow lay down, settling in for the night as though he hadn't done anything, "It was not sex, Ferox. It was clinical, yes? No different than what I have consistently done for you. No different than Wynne's healing spells. Only the way we look at it is different." Ferox began to sit up, "Ferox - healing is unpleasant. It hurts. It is frightening. But if left to your own devices, you would chew your limbs off and die rather than let someone free you from the frozen trap of your anger and grief. I will leave you be tonight if that is your wish, yet it seems unwise to leave you in such a state unattended. Memories will come, they always do when we are pressed in unwanted if necessary directions."

Furious, "Touch me again and you'll wish you chewed that arm off."

The despicable elf had been right. Memories had come. They came every night, no matter that the Antivan hadn't touched him again below the waist, not even to rub his feet. But somehow it had been impossible to deny the upper body being eased, at least after the memories would strike. It would be the only way to find any rest. Horse hadn't even growled at Zevran or his actions, not any of them. He felt betrayed, almost, until a large head would shove its way underneath a hand, a soft whine of sympathy when the memories attacked. The hound had been there too, he knew, and he had lost them all as well.

Another thing the Antivan had been right about - the anger was good fuel to direct.

In the Deep Roads, the close terror of twisted and ruined lives, the knowledge of where darkspawn came from, or at least how they were birthed left him laying awake with the shakes. There was no comfort to be had, not even Horse could help. In the night, not that time could be told - they slept when they were too tired to keep going - the nightmares were impossible to escape.

A hand found its way to his head, thumb massaging a temple, "Do not listen to the voice, _amora._"

Startled from the dazed staring, perhaps sleeping, "What?"

"Do not listen to the voice that you say calls you," beside him Zevran shifted, sounding fatigued. "It has no power over you. You do not belong to it. It cannot own you."

It was so dark, too dark.

"Shh," the Antivan crooned, for a moment blotting out the sound of the Archdemon. "You are here, you are Ferox Cousland, Warden and leader. They cannot touch you, they have no hold over you."

"They're too loud, too real," his mouth didn't check with his head, compelled by the much closer and immediate demon beside him.

"May I help you?"

He tried to say 'no'. Instead, "Please."

Arms slid around him, the smell of leather, sweat and foreign land, something akin to the smell of the sun brought down to the Deep Roads wrapped around him. Shuddering in that embrace, the hand gently guiding his head into the crook of neck, Ferox's eyes clenched shut. In his mind corn silk blond hair, reflecting sunlight, eyes of a deep pooled amber, flesh browned to a striking bronze, all things sun and warmth, shining even in the filth and dark pit of the Deep Roads. Inhaling that scent, he clutched at the shirt, at the shoulder and sinew beneath it, clinging to that lifeline to the above.

"Don't let me die here in the dark," muttering as he quaked, helpless against the constant grinding song of the darkspawn.

"I am your man, until such a time as you choose to release me," so steady, so calm, where the Crow found it when all Ferox wanted to do was crawl back to the surface, Ferox didn't care, only absurdly grateful that it was there. "You will not die in this place, Ferox. This I swear."

The next stop Ferox remained strong until the others went quiet, then the Archdemon's song and the slithering of darkspawn minds plucking at his began once more.

"Ferox, _amora._They cannot touch you," whispered in his ear, guiding him back, or at least trying to.

He wasn't able to reply to the spiced voice, being caught in the song.

"Come back to us, to me," the words were the same, different songs, different voices. One of sun and warmth and above, the other of dark and black fire and cloying earth traps.

He could answer neither.

Something slick touched his mouth, something strong pried at his lips, then _sunlight._It had a taste as well as a smell. There was texture too and sound. As it pulled away, frightened and mindless not wishing to lose that last gasp of air, Ferox grabbed for it.

"It is alright, _amora_," Zevran, or was it the sun? who spoke. "If you could wait to chew off my arm until we are shut of this place, it would allow me to remain useful awhile longer, hmn?"

"Don't forsake me," fingers digging in, refusing to let go, pleading in that dark place with the dark scratching, the only right thing there and it was half ready to leave him. "I won't chew off your arm, just...just don't...don't leave me here."

Lips touched his briefly, companionably, the only time he had ever been kissed like that. "I will not leave you behind. It is not your time and will not be for a great many years yet, yes? Rely upon me and I will work very hard to not let you down."

By the time they found Caridan, Zevran was having to spend minutes kissing him to keep Ferox present and sane enough to not answer the song, at least a little bit. He was too desperate to complain, to recoil or snarl. Death didn't bother him, but dying down in the terrible dark, earth pressing down on him - no, he couldn't do that, although that bright lava looked very tempting. If the Antivan's mouth on his, the smell of skin was what it took to have even a faint whiff of fresh air and sunlight, then he would find a way to deal. Anything to not be drowning in stone and sluggish black blood.

Even as they left, or at least attained Orzammar, Ferox had to struggle. The entire time cursing Duncan and the fact that having Joined during a Blight left him so vulnerable, the scrabbling noises and whispers were enough to make him lose his mind. It got so bad that as soon as the others were settled, he would drag Zevran to him quickly, a shield against the worst nightmare of his life that didn't seem to ever end. Only warmth and steadiness resided in that embrace. As much as he had despised the earlier lack of reaction, that impregnable fortress that could not be breached or roused to anger, now he was grateful for it. It was an anchor, needed as surely as food and water and air.

Long, nut brown hands guided his to the firm line of chest, beneath the shirt, feeling the reality there. A drumbeat of heart, the echo of fresh winds, the taste of sun in his mouth - that kept him alive enough to survive until they finally were outside. When night fell and they were in tents, blessed tents on ground that did not spread to the overhead, Zevran was still there, recently scrubbed from Behlen's baths, the only thing requested, having left the group long enough to do that. Everyone else had been of a mind that even the cold of the Frostbacks was preferable to being buried beneath stone for a moment longer than absolutely necessary.

Ferox paced the perimeter, unsure that the Crow would return. He had left Ferox, left the group after setting up the camp with them. It left him cursing, cursing himself, cursing Duncan, cursing Zevran. The elf had become a crutch, a vulnerable chink in armour that was necessary. Nothing could change the relief when a leather and wool clad shadow broke free of deeper, darker shadows, passing him but pausing long enough to glance at him before crawling into a tent. Fighting himself, Ferox swore vehemently.

And still entered his own tent.

Zevran was there, scrubbed clean, impossibly clean, fresh and crisp as the liquid gold of a late summer afternoon on a grassy bank. The long-sleeved outer jacket, fur lined and sturdy was unfastened, set aside, clean shirt beneath it also removed followed by boots and socks and the outer leather pants, leaving him in the thinner wool leggings. A jar was produced, one of several unguents that he always kept.

"Would you like a massage to rid you of the last of the Deep Roads' tension, _amora_?"

Yes, he would. "No."

"As you desire," jar opened anyway, the contents being rubbed in to bronze flesh of chest, working at muscles that must be equally tired.

How it happened, Ferox could only guess at. Gathering up a scoop of the salve he began mimicking the familiar and comfortable touch at shoulders, doing the giving instead of receiving. Zevran tensed, surprised, a minor victory for Ferox he supposed. Still his hands began to find a pattern to the flow of muscle, the stark black lines guiding the massage. Without thought he continued lower until a hand twisted back, fingers curling around his wrist.

"Not that I would mind your hands lower, but if you do that, I cannot guarantee that you will wish to refrain from ripping a limb or three or possibly even all five, from my body. Those limbs enable me to be moderately useful to you, _amora_," the warning gentle.

Frowning, Ferox didn't understand, saying it accusingly, "You said that there was nothing sexual - "

"Because you have no interest in me, of course that meant there was nothing to that. For me, it is different. Allowing you to touch me when my interests lie in your direction...? It makes for...complications." Zevran let his hand go, "What little distance I have from you that you require of me will be breached. Not that I would attack you, I am not a barbarian. But you will be...displeased."

"In the Deep Roads there was..." searching for a word.

"That was for survival and the only reason you allowed it," too calm, yet muscles had tightened - visibly even - beneath Ferox's hands. "It was something you required and allowed me to give. _This_is not like that. No matter, I will accept whatever you are willing to give, and will keep my word."

It was a trap, one that would rip his legs out from under him, making him useless. That much Ferox knew of for certain. The dependence - it was something he couldn't allow. Even if he knew he already had, no matter the justification that he had been in the dark, had been swallowed whole by a hole in the ground, had been buried alive. But there had been choice there, even if it would have destroyed him, his mind scrabbling over it screaming that it was no real choice.

The clean warm skin beneath his hands remained tense, but as always the assassin was steady. Inhumanly so. Being there had, returning to the tent - those had been choices. It meant replacing Rory with someone who let the world walk past, immovable and unimpressed by the failings and successes of others unless he chose to be. Ferox knew he didn't want to be alone. Being surrounded by idiots who had an idealistic world view that was going to get them all killed notwithstanding.

Except Zevran.

"Too bad this isn't a ploy to get in my tent to kill me," squeezing, putting pressure on the waist, uncertain, not comprehending how someone who was so implacable wanted anything to do with him.

"Hmn, yes, it would be rather masterful, no?" the muscles remained tense but loosened just a fraction as though the Antivan knew he had made a decision. "Except the minor fact that your need and friendship brought me back from the brink. Purpose. Such an odd word. Even when the world is tumbling down like a pile of bricks, purpose stops us from curling up and letting them fall as they will. It keeps us going until we figure out what it is to live again."

The longer Ferox stared at the bronzed skin, the more he realized that the texture and grain of it was finer and smoother than his own. That there were flecks of all shades of brown and gold there, some of them throwing back the little bit of light as though someone had sprinkled gold dust into the skin. It was too bright, Zevran was too hot, like trying to grab the sun. Foolish in the above, no matter how necessary in a living grave.

"Is that what it is?" hands withdrawing, looking away no matter that it was terrifying to do both.

"No. But it is difficult to remain in tight quarters and not learn the person beside you, especially if they talk in their sleep. For the record, I did not carve my name in your thigh the afternoon we met, no matter how many different languages and the several scripts I know," the Crow sat up slowly and reached for his earlier discarded shirt. "It is hard to not develop feelings when confronted with someone who puts others first, who, no matter how angry and frightened they are, still manages thoughtfulness. Kindness. Perhaps a dose of infatuation at first, true. Definitely several doses of mutual need. But, ah, it is a moot point, hmn?" The cloth covered that skin, making the tent's confines somehow dimmer, a smile turned Ferox's way. "I will still my chatter now so that we may sleep, my Warden. Do not worry - I will not abandon you, nor will I press you again, even though things do not go the way I wished they could."

Stopping the elf from laying back down with a touch at the broad shoulder that was a struggle to give, "Why did you take off your shirt?"

"Because my skin was chapped and I did not take the time to put salve on after bathing. The longer I took to return to camp, the greater the chances someone still agitated by our weeks underground would attack first, ask questions of a corpse later when I sought to return. My ability to tell time is muffled beneath all that stone and dirt, as is, I took longer than intended." A slight frown turned the full lips down, "Why do you ask?"

"It wasn't a ploy?"

"The only 'ploy' involved here these months was feigning deeper sleep so that you were less likely to snarl at me and kick me out," the answer honest, earnest. "It felt safe being beside you, a novel experience for me, to be safe for hours at a time when the last I can remember anything similar, I was a boy and not yet sold to the Crows. I found it...I find it...very difficult to cope with the thought of giving it up."

Finding a way to give permission, one that didn't expose his flank or a kidney, "Then don't."

"Thank you," it was like a weight had been lifted from the assassin's shoulders as he got situated once more.

Snuffing the camp lantern, Ferox thought he had been clear, was tensed and waiting for whatever the Crow thought needed to come next or wanted of him. The arm over his waist, the forehead pressed to his shoulder - all known things. No kiss, no arms tugging him in close. He hadn't been clear enough. Even as his eyes adjusted to the dark, Ferox couldn't stand it, it was too soon, the Deep Roads was still in his head and in his nose. There had been no sunshine beating down on him to remind him of the present and keep him there.

Choking on that fear that there was only stone overhead, "Zevran."

Beside him the elf shifted a hand cupping his cheek, the hint of hesitation just barely perceptible, "What is it?"

"They're still there."

"Ah."

Once more his senses filled with golden reality but the slick stroke of tongue over his was tender instead of merely reassuring. For those long seconds, Ferox didn't have to think, only hang on. And when the invasion of mind finally receded he still hung on. He could think of nothing else that he could make himself do to show he had given in, the earlier signals having come too late or the option of them taken away because he had not acted fast enough. A tentative touch of Zevran's mouth to his after they finally broke apart and Ferox parted his lips in silent reply. After each pause there was another taste of sunshine waiting, testing or exploring slowly, leaving him to wonder how many different ways a person could kiss the other without moving away from lips, teeth and tongue.

At night after the lantern was blown out, Zevran's arms would reach for him, the first kiss always there to reassure. The second to _be_reassured. By the time the last would come, it would be one of thanks. Hands returned to kneading muscles, switching off nightly. No more than that, just touch, kiss and sleep. Ferox tried to tell himself it wasn't frightening, with moderate success. With a start, he realized that the Crow took no more than could be given, placed no pressure, and he awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of heavier breathing beside him that took him a moment to understand. Nearly silent self-pleasure done rapidly as though it had become a habit and long practice ended with a very quiet growl and a sigh into the side of Ferox's shoulder followed by lips pressing through the linen once. He didn't reveal that he had heard anything or that he had awoken.

Another day meant another night. Another night meant more taste and texture and sound filling his senses. Instead of allowing the Crow to settle down beside him, Ferox wrapped an arm around him, pulling him in to his side. Several nights of that came and went before he once more awoke, the hand trapped between Ferox's hip and Zevran's moving with purpose until the smell of release filled the air, and he knew by morning it would always be gone. Tightening his arm around the elf as the expected kiss to the nearest available part came, he delivered one of his own to the flaxen crown.

Apologetic whisper, "_Amora_? I did not mean to awaken you, forgive me please."

"I know what 'amour' is in Orlesian," choosing his words carefully.

Zevran went still, "Do you now?"

"The first time - the Deep Roads, you said it then."

"Yes, I did," it was readily admitted. A nervous pause, "I would stop if you wish it of me."

"I like it better than 'Warden', for all I know, you're talking to Alistair."

An indelicate snort, "I would hope that you do not think insults and the like, such as I fling at him, are the sort I would ever direct at you, as I do not think the name 'Chantry Boy' could possibly be applied to your handsome self."

"Amora and handsome - that's laying it on thickly," a rumble found its way to his throat.

"Both true, but one is description, one is a state of being," it sounded far too reasonable, the way most things did coming from that mind.

"Don't worry about waking me up."

The taste was in his mouth, the end of a day no matter how tiring or frustrating would be rewarded with a blast of warmth. Laying on their sides in the dark, Zevran's lips left his, not going far, just moving to touch somewhere else, the side of his neck, breathing deep of whatever the day had coated Ferox in. Dust and sweat mostly, or so Ferox found himself hoping, not wanting to offend having at some point realized just how acute the elf's senses were, by offhand and random comments.

Zevran shifted closer, the hard line of Ferox's erection noticeable, "May I? Do - do you wish me to -"

He found his fingers tangling in Zevran's hair, lips seeking once again. A moan vibrated into his mouth, long brown fingers dug at his hip and there was a roll of hips. He hadn't realized that he had been hiding his own arousal from the elf until the surprised and pleased sound issued as through the light wool, their cocks ground against each other. He wasn't ready for that, wasn't sure, wasn't a lot of things, so instead of letting a hand slip into his pants, he took Zevran's and guided it back to the straining need that the Crow sated each night. The sounds of his pleasure were audible but not loud, tempting Ferox repeatedly with a quiet groan or hungry kiss that was reciprocated, giving what he could to Zevran until the elf went stiff with a harsh series of panting, gasping into the crook of Ferox's neck. Squeezing Zevran tightly Ferox managed several more long kisses before he had to stop or just give in to the way the elf tasted and smelled and sounded and felt.

Why did he resist each night? It was getting difficult to remember, his own want building to confusing and epic proportions. The comforting weight was on his thighs, the heels of palms digging in and smoothing out the areas that a healing spell couldn't help.

"_Amora_," palms sliding over the small of his back, hands coming to rest lightly on his buttocks. "I should like to touch you here. To bring you good feelings, yes? If you were to allow it of course."

Biting the inside of his cheek, rumbling, "Don't have to do that. There's no debt, but..."

Zevran's weight stretched out slowly along Ferox's back, "But I _want_to bring you good feelings."

"Last time the...that which followed was not pleasant. I'd prefer to be able to sleep without the nightmares of fires and screaming in the night, thank you."

"It would be different, the...the intent of the touch is different. I want to smooth that away." A cheek rested between his shoulder blades. "May I touch you some other way then?"

Managing, "Not tonight. Soon..." Mentally scrambling as Zevran's weight began to slip away, "Some other way how?"

The Crow paused, lips pressed to the back of a shoulder, "My mouth, my body, my hands on your length, you inside me - there are many other ways." Coming to rest beside him, Zevran's voice was gentle, "Soon is soon enough, _amora_."

Burying his face in the folded cloak that smelled of foreign lands and sun, "I have had only one and as you have heard the whispered tale from Lelianna, and whatever I have muttered out in my sleep, you can guess how that tale ends, even if the details of him holding the gate...for our escape...is not said or known by any other than two amongst the living."

In the dim light of the lantern, bare as he was, Ferox was excruciatingly brought back to how vulnerable he was making himself, not just physically, but mentally as well. Strong hands pulled the blanket up before working their way under his chest to tug him in. The Antivan was very quiet, allowing him to hide his face in the column of brown skin.

Finally, "Three amongst the living know then. Three amongst the living know that there was love. Inexperience or experience do not matter in the face of that, _amora._What was done was done out of love."

It wasn't just the gate that was being referred to. Ferox suspected it was everything, from start to finish, not just his own life but others. It was unknown how that could apply, just that it likely did.

Thinking of those who had loved and been loved, "None of it was given lightly and I couldn't begin to do so now."

"No more than you are willing to give, _amora._And I will give no more and no less than I am able." An aquiline nose pressed to Ferox's temple, "I am yours."

A shudder rippled through him and Ferox frowned with his confusion, "Why? Why do you say that you are mine?" It was too much responsibility. He had the others to take care of, a Blight to somehow end before it spread. But this was personal, it wasn't duty.

"Why? Because I chose to be," a caress to his shoulders, an inhale as though Ferox were fresh air or something equally pleasing. "With you, I belong, with you, I am safe, with you, I am...perhaps not wanted...but...accepted, yes, that I am. With you, I am at peace except for when you suffer and there is nothing that I can do."

A growl worked up, anger at the mere thought, suddenly overwhelming, "Whoever said that you are not wanted is going to spar with me tomorrow."

"It is - Ferox, I am a slave, I am a tool, I am a pest, and I am frequently difficult to deal with - there is nothing to want there beyond continued usefulness, it need not be said by anyone," rueful self-depreciation. "Tools are replaceable, interchangeable, if one only looks hard enough. They are not thought of until needed, otherwise they are set aside in favour of other things. That is how life is."

No one in his life was replaceable or interchangeable. Otherwise he wouldn't bleed so much to keep those he could, safe. "You are not an object. You are you and irreplaceable."

Perhaps they were both taken aback by his vehemence.

"As you say, _amora._"

"Tomorrow be ready for that sparring session."

The massage was good, it always was, but it was accompanied by kissing this time. The side of his neck, a shoulder, along his spine. Rumbling, "What are you doing?"

"Apologies for presuming," they stopped, hands returning to their work.

Grunting, "I didn't say 'stop' - I asked what you were doing. Or perhaps more accurately - why?"

"Kissing your broad back, the one I am heartily glad accepted the healing from that last fight," again the mouth touched him. "It was worrisome to have to wait to check on you." A sore spot was found, then oddly enough licked once. "I was afraid for you."

"Good news - we found new armour while destroying my old stuff." Grunting as another of those very distracting licks took place, clearly not intended to be erotic, felt more like an animal cleaning a wound - one that wasn't there anymore, certainly, but that was what it felt like. "But afraid? Why? Thought you weren't going to get to finish that contract yourself?"

Zevran stopped mid-swipe, sat up and left the tent without saying a word, gone too fast for Ferox to say anything else.

Much later the assassin reentered the tent, crawling in beside Ferox who hadn't been able to sleep. And Horse's look at him had been particularly reproachful, reminding him of what he had been told. About a girl that Zevran had let die, one that loved him. One he had spit on. One that by her death made him leave his warm homeland for dank and damp Ferelden, with not a scrap of extra on his bones and work himself until he was ready to drop. Until he _did_drop, hypothermia set in and if Ferox had allowed the elf to go back to his own tent that night, that drop likely would have been permanent.

"I will not kill you unless you ask me to," was all that was said. "Unless you are so mangled that there was no hope for recovery, then I would kill you if there was no way to save you. Other than those instances - _no_."

Then he rolled on his side, back pressed to Ferox's arm.

Following cautiously, he lay a hand on the upturned hip. "I meant to tease, but I failed utterly and I'm sorry to have said those words. However, I do appreciate the clarification as I don't think anyone other than Sten, who would be left frustrated at the lack of leadership, would assist or understand about relieving that sort of misery."

"It is alright, a...sensitive topic. We both have them, _amora._" Zevran twisted in his arms gingerly. "But I would not harm you if it could ever be helped. We have both done our fair share of killing, we have both suffered loss. There are many things you and I have done, but the one that I hope and pray to never repeat is to take the life of someone...precious...to me. Yet I also know that there are some cases where death is the only safety and rescue that can be given."

Taking the peace offering and forgiveness, "That is...very true." Falling silent for a time, Ferox reached for the thoughts he didn't usually let himself think. "When this is over, this damnable Blight - what do you intend to do next? Ideas? Plans?"

"I should like to go to Antiva, but to do so I would have to deal with the House of Crows. Doing that alone would be...problematic. Suicide frankly."

"So a written apology and a nice gift basket wouldn't go over very well?"

Chuckling, "No, _amora_, it would not. A pity. However, in lieu of you and I going to Antiva and showing you the sights, I would be more than content on faithfully following you so long as I was allowed to remain by your side, ad infinitum."

"Supposedly Wardens give up everything. Which I think is _incredibly_stupid, but then again it was what Duncan said, so - that makes it automatically suspect..." Grumbling but not particularly displeased - the sun laughed and it was warm. "Either way, unless my older brother Fergus shows up, which is improbable to say the least - he was at Ostagar too, on a patrol, right in front of the horde I might add, technically I'm the Teyrn of Highever. At least until that's taken away too."

Calloused fingers smoothed over his cheek, "You could be a pauper with not a single bit to your name, and I would still remain by your side and count myself lucky. Though I would likely steal us enough coin so that there was some form of roof over our heads."

"Well, depending on Loghain swaying Anora...and the little thing with Howe, you may get your wish of living in a barn with a pauper...although I have managed to sweet talk no small amount of coin out of Bodahn myself."

"In that case, Antiva is warm and the food is good - and work is plentiful, no?"

"Just how many languages _do_you speak?"

"Ten, though only four of them fluently, and three are functionally dead, why?"

Shrugging in the dark, trying to come up with what ten languages there _were_in Thedas, "We could always travel."

"Ah, yes, so that we do not miss the Blight, no?" obviously teasing, the assassin nestled in close with a kiss that stopped mid-way for a yawn. "There are many options then, _amora_."

"That's why I was asking what you wanted to do. Something else to think about, something to plan for, something else to occupy the mind other than, will Bhelen live up to his agreements?" Growling as he voiced his frustrations, "Will the elves find any others to help us, and why do mages live in towers or cast fireball spells in a frelling library? Or why can't I figure out why you always smell so good."

"Which of those would you like answers to? I can answer all of those," Zevran said very matteroffactly. "Bhelen will live up to it or there would be full blown civil war amongst the dwarves. Those who support him not supporting us would be crushed quickly due to the fact that supplies from the surface are a life-line, they would have no power or prestige if they had no way to sell their metals and goods and lyrium. Elven scouts cover what our merry group covers in two or three days in one, and the Dalish have a coded form of direction pointing that they leave for the very purpose of being easily found by other clans. Mages live in towers as they are easy to contain, and purge, the library had enough fire protection runes that one would half expect pages to merely regenerate if mangled by a sloppy hand if they were put in a fire. And I smell good because you find me attractive. To someone like Wynne I might smell like rancid pond water. Which is good, as if she found me attractive I think I might vomit. It is far more preferable that you do, as the feeling is mutual." The stream of words halted - but only for a moment. "Any other questions that plague you that you require solved?"

"Now I really need something else to think about or tomorrow is going to be a very boring walk to Denerim in the continuation of this endless march across Ferelden."

"Hmn, that _is_a problem," agreeable and reasonable as usual. "I might have a solution, something to think about or to distract."

Ferox was about to ask but then there were hands under his shirt, rubbing his chest slowly and Zevran was making a strange purring noise in the back of his throat, face pressed tightly to Ferox's neck. It was distracting, certainly. It was also a new puzzle - just how did the elf do that? But he didn't know what to do with the situation, drawing a blank, and the assassin's hands were nowhere near the swelling that was currently growing.

Answering the purr with a soft growl, "Zevran - what may I do for you?"

The faintly sweat-stained shirt from the day before was tugged up. But very slowly. "Is it too soon for me to ask to use my mouth on you?"

"I would venture a guess you are not talking about on my mouth," not sure if he was hiding his uncertainty, hoping that least his interest might come through, not wanting to reject, but still extremely nervous.

Palms pressed to his shoulders, then gradually slid down, "I will start up here, the goal, it is down here-" pausing at Ferox's waistband. "But I will stop the moment you ask me to, _amora,_" the hands moving back up quickly.

Licking his lips, Ferox sought to ignore the ache in his groin that wished for nothing more than that he give in. Closing his eyes he made himself think, to the best of his abilities, Zevran was still making that odd purring noise, it affected his speech oddly. The hot burr rolled around in the cavern of the mouth Ferox wasn't certain he had fully explored yet, and found daily that he just wanted to make sure he had.

Swallowing the easy answer, 'no', as it was an old one and unwanted, "As interesting as that sounds I'd...be more interested in learning how you do that."

A partial answer but one he hoped got his point across.

Zevran leaned up to tug off his shirt, "By all means, _amora._Satisfy your curiosity."

Spreading hands over the lean and muscular chest, Ferox ducked his face to listen to the purring directly. Initially at least. But the sound came from the chest and not just the throat, a sound that thrummed against his ear then his lips as he touched skin, the air vibrating steadily. It was full of stops and starts, managing to reach Zevran's breastbone but the oddness at nipples stopped him in full, frowning in the dark, wishing the lantern was still lit. Thumbing them for a moment he realized that metal had been embedded in delicate flesh and quickly withdrew his hand, worried he had caused pain.

Hands smoothed over Ferox's shoulders, "Is something amiss, _amora_?"

"Why would you, what, metal - metal in your -"

"Piercings? I put them there as I find them aesthetically pleasing, and the stimulation is no less pleasant. Why?"

"That had to of hurt," silently supplying the 'horribly'. "So I'll just take your word for it.

"Hmn...no, it was not so bad. More than a tattoo but it also ends faster. The trade-offs were worth it, as are the other piercings I have."

"_Other_piercings?" suddenly completely out of his depth once more.

He felt Zevran shrug, "Five on the underside of my shaft so that sex is of greater pleasure for my partner, one in the tip for my own increased enjoyment. It is neither common nor uncommon. Many have more piercings, many have less. The same as my tattoos. It is all a matter of preference."

Wariness and curiosity warred. No one would willingly put needles in their body just for pleasure. It had to have been done to him and the intervening years must have given the assassin time to get used to them and fabricate that little fiction. Or maybe not. Ferox couldn't say and he wouldn't know because he wouldn't ask.

An amused sound, the elf sat up, dislodging Ferox but keeping a tight hold on him, "Such a frown I can envision on your handsome face, _corizon._No reason to keep it just to yourself, hmn?"

Flint and steel struck several times, a spark took the fat soaked wick, illuminating the familiar back and shoulders. The elf made a satisfied noise, scooting around on the bedrolls to tug off socks, then leggings, folding them and setting them aside, reduced to just his smalls. Languidly stretching while moving the lantern, Zevran set it where it would give them the best light. He had known it for a long time, but _seeing_Zevran suddenly like that was something of a shock. Ferox had refrained from allowing himself to look at all except in the most general terms - limbs, eyes, nose, ears, mouth, jaw, neck, shoulders - but now it was like a hammer's blow. Scars and tattoos only made a very wide chested and yet improbably lean body even more beautiful. Like a snowcat or the rare cougar while in summer and autumn coats, the markings and tawny gold only exaggerated the simple motion of breathing. Or like the very rare, tigers that ranged the borders between the Korcari Wilds, the Frostbacks and the Uncharted Territories with pelts that ranged from snow white with long mottled black stripes or to deep red-umber with tan stomachs, their faces and bodies bearing black markings as well. If he could, Ferox would make a cloak of those pelts as well as continue to make the blankets for the elf to settle in nightly, protecting his less cold-resistant body.

Clearing his throat, Ferox felt large and bumbling, not just inexperienced, but graceless by comparison. "I didn't know you had tattoos on your legs."

Zevran took Ferox's face in his hands, the gesture familiar, but had only come when they were laying down, not sitting up. Sun gold eyes skipped over his face, studying him thoroughly before saying with just the mildest hint of coaxing, "Ferox, there is no need to fear - not me, not yourself. Not this. I am going nowhere, stop when you wish to, take as much time as you desire. You are incapable of disappointing me, as I am here because I desire your presence and touch."

Tilting his head, a kiss was deposited on a sinewy wrist, an interesting circular tattoo over the vein. Taking Zevran's word for it as it was all he could do, Ferox started over with what was nearest. Knuckles jutted from hands, wear and tear from countless fights on them, but they were only slightly reddened, the frequent applications of salves during a massage, and apparently whenever possible, having protected and soothed them, they were a fighter's hands, there was no mistaking it. Following the line of bone, the tendons ropey and flat, packed tightly, displaying strength with a flex, every muscle standing in relief as they were explored. Forearms widened and were hard, though the skin was velvety, a great deal of the power originating there, fueling the assassin's strikes during a fight, or the strength to tug and pull and smooth sore muscles into a semblance of submission, with the fine tuned motor-control there. Biceps were thinner oddly, but still much larger than Ferox would have suspected from the elven servants and the bare armed Dalish men he had seen. It was in the meat of the shoulders that some of the real strength came from, or was it the back, layered as it was with coiled tissues, compact and extremely dense? Skin and muscle hung from bones that were slim but wide-set, worn comfortably as any fine and specially made garment.

Gold hoops lay close and tight around ruddy brown nipples, not much different than ones he had seen in the ears of others. Checking there quickly, a thumb and forefinger touching a lobe, faint dents, three in each lobe, and upon closer inspection, several up higher near the sculpted tips. At the exploratory touch sliding down the cartilage, they did something startling - they twitched, the entire shell rotating forward to keep contact with the touch. It only reinforced the image of a feline, or a very sleek mabari without the narrow loin. Or the face so ugly that it became interesting.

Repeating the motion, "I've never seen anything like that. Would you do that again? Do other elves move their ears? "

"Some do," head tilted, a hand guiding Ferox's fingers up so the tip could curl in a whispered embrace. "Those who do are wary of sharing it. _Shemlen_obsession with our ears has led to pain in frequent enough cases. The only time I cursed and wanted to swear from discomfort of a physical modification I have done to my body were the pierciengs up near the tips. I would take my nose being done a thousand times, my cock twice that, before I would sit still for twelve holes punched through all at once in my ears. Or the crossbar, that one...pure foolishness. Besides it never looks good on an elf, and it forces our ears to be stiff." It was a contented purr, "But when care is taken to not purposefully inflict damage, I find the touch of another very...welcome."

"Why did you take the piercings out?" unable to stop himself from slowly stroking and rubbing the flexible flesh as it twitched and swiveled and curled while Zevran made low noises.

"I did not wish anyone to rip them from my ears as loot after killing me," absentminded. "With how finicky Fereldens are, I found it unlikely anyone would touch those in my nipples and penis. And I gave my old ones from my bellybutton, tongue, eyebrow, ears and nose to...to those who had taken me in before. Superstitious lot."

Checking to make sure it was alright, he leaned in to nuzzle at Zevran's face, kissing him slowly and worked his way to an ear. It almost cupped his lips with invitation, and he gave it an experimental lick. Bronze hands grabbed Ferox's knees a growl and groan issuing. He took that as a good sign, so continued his inspection, moving from one to the other, losing track of time.

"Ferox," a hint of warning, "I do not...I do not mean to be hasty but that is...driving me just faintly, faintly mind you, up the wall." There was a shudder head moving away from Ferox's face to lean forward, panting against his chest.

Pointing out, "This is a tent - hard to do, even for you."

The Crow chuckled, "True, but I am...unaccustomed...to that much attention there. Not even another elf, yes? It is..."

Ferox took on a rural drawling, "Is it larger than the universe? Is it smaller than a mouse? Is it a velvet painting of Arland done in the last three days? Is it two white horses one named Tookus the other not? A shrubbery perhaps?" He was prepared to offer more alternatives.

"It is a bit much to take," more laughter, lips touching Ferox's throat. "The stimulation is just slightly...overwhelming, hmn? If you wish to continue there, allow them a few moments to rest." Tongue slid into Ferox's mouth, lips somehow mumbling, "It is not bad, just too much focus at once."

Rumbling after the twining and licking of mouths had stopped, "As you wish."

Gingerly Ferox continued elsewhere, finding the hollow of the throat, the bobbing apple at windpipe when licked firmly gained the rushing air of a moan. Mapping each patch of skin, going slow, careful to make sure no hurt was incurred, while Zevran lay back, watching him or eyes closed when a particularly sensitive place was found. The hoop in a nipple was touched then gradually tested and tasted. There was no thick layer of hair over chest or abdomen, but as he went farther down, downy copper fuzz formed an expanding trail that sank below the waist of undergarments. Halting there, the large ridge of erection tucked to the side was...also startling. Ferox didn't wish to compare what he had seen before, but couldn't really help it considering that what wasn't out in the open yet was still a great deal _more_than what he had been once familiar with.

"Ferox, you do not have to do that," honeyed skin and abdominal muscle flexed beneath Ferox's hands.

"Is that a 'Please stop'? Or a 'You don't have to', way out?"

"A way out," succinct. "No more than you are willing, _amora_. You need not rush on my account. You can stop at any point and that will be enough - no pressure, no harm, no fear, no anger, Ferox."

"I appreciate my scout's advice, but I should like to see the lay of the land myself, as he has permitted it."

Full lips quirked, hands cupping, but not pulling, Ferox's head. "I am yours."

Tugging the linen away, Zevran raised his hips to assist, but made no other moves other than to stroke Ferox's crown lightly in an easy rhythm, giving reassurance. From anyone else it would be off-putting, as Ferox wasn't the one in the vulnerable state. With the confining linen gone, the thickness and length were allowed freedom, curving rather than straight. At the base the hair had darkened to a deeper copper, something between that darker metal and the spun gold of the elf's shoulder length locks.

Reining in the statement that almost broke free about commonly held beliefs about male elven anatomy versus what he was currently faced with, Ferox instead took a few more moments. He had already spoken poorly that evening and had no wish to repeat it, _especially_not about something so intimate. The lists of things he could say that came to mind weren't very good. Ferox really had no idea what to say, just that he had to be careful.

Grasping the hard heat firmly, thumb finding the strange piercings on the underside, "I don't see why you felt the need to do anything to yourself to ensure satisfaction."

An arm folded under his head to prop up and watch him, "It is not the size that matters, it is the way it is used. But I have always strove to be nothing if not a polite lover, _amora._The more effort I put forth, the greater my reward, as there is much to enjoy in giving." A shrug of shoulder, "It is like the tattoos and piercings - I have seen many kinds. An 'impressive' size is not always all that impressive. But none of that matters, only that you and I are here, that is what I need for satisfaction."

It sounded reasonable, just like anything else Zevran ever said to him. Part of him wanted to agree outright, but he didn't know firsthand. Yes, he liked giving; had given gifts to his companions and seeing them happy had meant something. But the way the elf's eyes had lit up, after the initial shock and almost-hostility had worn off, the picking it apart, the never having had a gift, the way he had been so off balance... Yet the gratitude that Ferox had listened to and had _remembered_an offhand comment... Nothing was ever asked for, never demanded. The only thing asked for was to be allowed to give, as though Zevran didn't know how to receive. Which, Ferox suddenly realized, might actually be true. Even when the assassin had forced an issue, touched uninvited, that had not been for the elf's pleasure or desire at all. It was all giving, no asking. Not even a massage of shoulders, or a wound stitched, or warmth shared. He couldn't think much about the forced touch, but he could acknowledge in the confines of his own mind that Zevran had not taken any joy in that act, that much had been obvious.

Squeezing and giving Zevran's manhood a long stroke, even in this there was giving. Outs offered, safety promised, calmness seeping from every pore, allowing Ferox to explore and sate his curiosity wherever it took him, trust too. In his hand there was a flex against the grip, the pulse of blood rushing beneath Ferox's fingertips beckoned. Velvet skin slipped up and down the shaft easily with each stroke, the dusky with blood the head was swollen, another ring passing through the eye out the underside of the tip. Another flex and a pearl leaked out, pale cream against the dark plushness making the gold gleam. Without thinking, Ferox licked the evidence of deep arousal away, rumbling at the taste. Paying special attention, ignoring in some ways his own curiosity and its desire to be sated, he listened and watched for Zevran's sounds of pleasure. As much as Ferox wished to focus on finding and learning everything, of controlling what he could, he gave this time. Working his tongue over the thick veins that pulsed each time Zevran twitched, Ferox did what he could, swallowing down as much as he could take.

A guiding hand came, nimble digit running around the crown, then dragging it down the underside and back up, showing instead. "_Amora_, here, here is...good...and here."

Following the instructions, Ferox listened to the sighs and groans, watched the way muscles tensed in a line up a black streaked golden side. Firmly caressing a muscular thigh, he got more comfortable, one of Zevran's legs instantly bent at the knee, cradling him and providing support for the arm that was busy holding the heavy erection upright. Continuing to stroke Zevran, touching everywhere he could reach, Ferox glided his tongue in a meaningless pattern, held captive by the look of concentration on elven features.

"_Amora,_" it was hoarse. "Please," a thick swallow while Ferox didn't pause. The hand that had been resting on Ferox's head left, flailing towards the pack, "Please, Ferox, just..."

Stopping at the note of desperation, worried, but he had sounded like he was enjoying it, confused, Ferox stilled, "Yes?"

"Cream, just...I am sorry, but please," fingers grasped futilely at was just out of reach.

Ferox got up enough to dig in the Crow's pack, grabbing the first one he could find and turned back, uncorking it. "What do you need?"

Lids slammed closed, a deeply indrawn breath, "Fingers and what you were doing."

Almost ready to take some out, "Wait, is this one poison?"

At that, a deep laugh, holding out a hand to take the jar and check with a quick sniff, "No. But that would have been entertaining."

Ferox didn't think so, "I'd rather not try to find the humour in that."

Zevran shook his head, leaning to sit half-up, taking and giving a long kiss. "Vials are poison, jars are salves and poultices. Usually." Forehead pressed to Ferox's jaw, hot breath coasting over his neck, "I only wished to gain another of those kisses. Checking for poison was a good excuse."

Giving the Antivan a firm push to lay back down, Ferox gathered a goodly amount of the salve, slowly coating the ring of muscles that relaxed immediately at his touch. Taking great care, he began to work a single finger in as Zevran let out a soft hiss, head thumping on their rolled up cloaks several times. Inside was soft and tight, the muscles rhythmically grasping the long middle digit. He wasn't sure that he was ready for everything, though the temptation and desire was there.

Zevran held up two fingers, "Two, two, any other time you desire, do as you will, but please..." Quicker than he would normally think was wise, at least with Rory, he added a second digit, gaining a clench, arched back and another hiss, "_Amora_!"

Waiting until he was certain that that wasn't a displeased sound and that it really was what Zevran wanted, Ferox made himself comfortable once more, returning to giving rather than exploring, though they were nearly the same thing. It was a fine distinction. The sounds the elf made were wilder with each passing moment, the time of clearly pent up want and craved connection adding to what small skills Ferox had. There was a warning, a hand on his face, urging him away as that almost audible rushing pulse began. Allowing his lips to leave the head as it began to violently erupt, instead focusing on Zevran's broad shaft, while his fingers continued their work, a groan that ended in a rolling growl surging in time with the upwelling of seed.

Withdrawing slowly, carefully, as Zevran shuddered while scrubbing a hand over his face, Ferox licked his lips. "Zevran - I would have swallowed, I'm not that inexperienced and I've already tasted you."

The Crow moaned stretching and propping up on both elbows, "And that always is something I find enticingly pleasant. However I was...quite pent up. The velocity would not have been comfortable in all likelihood." A hand came out to cup Ferox's head and tug him close enough to kiss again. "I did not wish to risk it being unpleasant for you, _amora_, or being presumptuous again."

Growling, Ferox sought another kiss, before taking a path down to the pale puddle and licked it away, then gave the same treatment to the still very present erection, pleased at Zevran's hungry voice muttering in Antivan what definitely didn't sound like insults. Ferox removed and folded his own shirt, familiar, comfortable with that much, easily putting the garment near to hand, but also putting it away. The leggings were more difficult, normally Zevran was not watching, busy looking for whatever was needed. But he wouldn't reward the openness and giving with shutting the assassin out. That too was managed, and set aside carefully.

"Ferox," palm landing on his knee, squeezing it once. "May I give you some of the same relief and joy you have given me?"

There was no plan in place, hadn't been since Zevran had come back to the tent, so his words were chosen as carefully as he could make them be, "I don't want you to _have to_. That's not right...I mean, I don't want you to have to because you believe that there is some debt you think you owe, or repayment or...no choice. I am happy where we are, not a tent, but you know what I mean. I'm happy with this now and I don't want to ruin anything and I don't want ME to ruin it either because I can't, won't do something you want...or hesitate to think about it for a minute. And the more I think about this, the more I need air." Even though he had started slow and steady, the last sentence stumbled and fell all over itself in an effort to escape his mouth.

Zevran touched Ferox's chin, stilling the motion, the usual firmness in place, mixed with that always dose of gentleness. "Ferox, whatever pace you are remotely comfortable with is the pace we will go, I can and will match my steps to yours. This is not you give, I give, like a child's game of tit-for-tat. There is nothing to prove to me or to yourself, as forcing something that you are not ready for at this point will only lead to discomfort. But if you wish air, pants might be necessary, and it would be a shame, as I was enjoying the view, just so you know."

A breath to steady himself, he tilted his head slightly, "To start, I like this," Ferox leaned in to kiss Zevran, who was receptive and returned it with the same steadiness he always displayed. Holding the elf's hand for a moment, Ferox pressed it flat to his chest. Breaking the kiss, "I like when you touch me as well. Beyond this we haven't gone, so starting with this is familiar...good."

With a firm tug, he was pulled back down so they were face to face as they often were for that which usually came before sleep. "Then this is certainly where we can start, _amora_."

Amongst the many, many things Ferox didn't understand or couldn't even begin to guess at, was why Zevran always tasted like sunlight. Even with the flux of food or sleep it was still at its core, the same. That alone made the need for air subside, because like in the Deep Roads, he was the air and the light. A leg slowly tangled with his, Ferox noticed that, felt it, felt the bare skin against his own, the foot curling around his calf by tucking the arch over the widest part of the muscle, the light bump of a knee against his, the hand at his hip moving them gradually closer together. Moist hardness pressed near his aching need that he had only occasionally, almost furtively satisfied during the Crow's morning watch, and only of late, begun some time between the now and leaving the Deep Roads. Almost always with the thought of sunlight in his mouth, that brief press once, a whispered '_amora_' were the last things to send him over. More recently he had thought of other things, of a strong finger, but instead of what had happened, it was a jumble of everything, until he could no longer think and relief spilled out.

Once there, hands roved, pulling Ferox's braid fully undone, a very pleased purr issuing from a bronze throat that was echoed, and Ferox pushed an arm beneath Zevran, drawing him tighter. Several purposeful rockings of hips and he had to tear his mouth away, needing to hear those noises the elf had made earlier, while hoping for another murmured endearment. Pushing soft hair away from an ear, a lobe was taken between teeth, pressing lightly until he heard a hitch in breathing, fingers tightening in his hair, flexing. A hand snaked down Ferox's side, rubbing and grasping as his tongue slithered over the Crow's ear.

"_Amora,_" groaned in the light of the lantern, a mass of blond hair and brown skin all Ferox could see through his hooded eyes, the assassin's hand working between them. "_Amora_, I need to touch you, to feel you like this," the grasp sure around Ferox's length, holding it together with his own.

Shuddering at the direct contact, the intent was there, undeniable. So was the want. Even as hotly as it burned, the sun was steady in his arms, and Ferox only sought out the mouth that said things that frightened and thrilled him. In that instant he probably would have done anything asked, but nothing more than the proposed stroking happened, to go with the more familiar things. Rumbling as Zevran pleasured them both, Ferox wanted more but didn't know how to ask for it or how to think or how to cope with more. Focusing on the slick tongue and the way the hand felt holding them together, Ferox was surprised when Zevran tore his mouth away, the earlier heard low moan that ended in a growl came as viscous, hot fluid poured over the massaging hand and his own cock. There was something about the way it sounded, and dazedly he realized just how much the Antivan had been muffling and holding himself back.

The thought that just that had sent Zevran over made Ferox feel slightly crazed. For whatever reason that vibrant creature wanted him, had found that strong of a release with _him._ When hands had travelled and roamed, pressing him back, mouth following a straight path, he didn't think to protest or even want to. Long tongue gathered and licked away the spilled seed, lips pressing to his throbbing desire, having held himself in check, too busy experiencing to fully let go, then he was being devoured in a long swallow, a nose pressed into his pubic hair, a low noise sending steady vibrations along his length before withdrawing to lick and swirl before sinking down again. If he died there, it would be happy, as he was in a blast of sunlight, consuming him and burning without pain.


	2. Chapter 2

And as always: Reviews make me squee!

Title: Dream a Little Dream of Me  
Author: Rhion & **briala**  
Rating: AO  
Summary: Do me a favour - the next time I dream this, could you just hit me over the head until it gets through to me?  
AN: For briala for a nice little Festivus thing. Random character mumbling by Ferox lead to this hypothetical thing that could have happened during the Blight. That has apparently spawned a story. More than thirty thousand in. Blarg. Why no, I don't have other things to do with my time... Moderately beta'd, but there's certainly going to be things that slipped through the cracks. :evil grin: Hello punnage, how are you?  
Contains: mutual masturbation, digital-anal, oral, oral-anal, fisting, slash  
Pairing: M!Cousland/Zevran.

XXX

There had been a peculiar bounce in his step all day, not deterred by the limited sleep, or the peculiarity of awakening tangled and nude, his spine not completely straight. Horse had slept at the foot of the tent, his large back turned, having given privacy but was clearly not going to leave. It was his tent too. But during the day he had barely heard the usual banter, just some laughter, and the warm burn of Zevran's whiskey and honey voice. Ferox hadn't even been able to listen to the words, or else he would have called a halt. Which he had to do eventually anyway, everyone was tired, and they were all due for a rest besides. They had pushed so far, so much, that while they planned on heading to the Brecelian Forest, a pit-stop or two would be necessary.

Making the rounds after camp had been made, Leliana's comment about 'Your Zevran' had taken him aback, surprising him. They had been careful, so he thought, or Zevran had at least, always setting up his own tent, no matter that his gear was always in Ferox's, deposited and slipped in when no one would notice. And by the time everyone was waking up, Ferox and Zevran usually had already broken down their tents to stow in Bodhan's cart. Not that he minded Leliana's comment though, it was just odd. Ferox himself tended towards the discreet, a polite secret that everyone knew but didn't speak about. The only thing his parents had ever said about he and Rory was that 'discretion was the better part of valor', then telling him that they just wanted him to be content with his life, whatever path it took.

No one else said anything, but that stood to reason - a bard would be as observant, or nearly so, possibly even more so, as an assassin. Wynne was the real shock. Immediately she launched into a lecture on duty, as though he hadn't been raised up and suckled at the teat of Duty and Honour his whole life. Then the comment that Zevran had only one thing on his mind and saying he acted like he was working in a brothel. And that their racket had prevented anyone from sleeping. That was crossing the line. Actually, all of it was. He had had to clamp down on the snarl, had had to summon up the mask of genteel and say that it was just fun, and that he would not forget his duty as a Warden.

After that he was in a black mood, ate his dinner silently, even as Zevran finally sat down beside him with his own bowl, the solid mabari providing them both with a backrest.

A mug of some herbal blend the assassin was always finding one way or another was passed to him, which Ferox accepted, focusing on his food. The faint smell of blood from Zevran's semi-nightly hunting forays to make sure the party had meat, was a soft cloying undercurrent to the leather, sweat, sunshine and spices as he tucked into his food, demolishing the first bowl by the time Ferox finished his. As usual, Ferox got up to grab them both seconds, letting the assassin rest for a few more minutes.

"I gather that your nightly rounds did not go well, my Warden?"

"Not right now," mumbling around a chunk of scavenged tuber.

Zevran grunted, scanning the party inconspicuously, "So, a certain wise woman said something nasty that has stolen the light from your lovely eyes. My going rate is very low, but only for you."

Pursing his lips, Ferox stirred the thick stew several times, "I thought of that, but we need a healer."

"...Ferox, it was said in jest."

It took him a moment to process, as _he_ hadn't been joking. "Oh."

"What was said that was so offensive?" a light brush over the back of Ferox's hand was compelling enough to make him seriously consider telling the Crow.

Well there was no way he would say it all. Divulging some would be fine. "I'm apparently neglecting my duty."

"Hmn, the woman who waltzes away from the Tower when they need her most has the ability to talk 'duty' to the one who is tramping across hither and yon because someone has to do it? Typical," a hand was waved dismissively while indicating everything at once.

"It was irritating, yes. But I can laugh that one off."

Appraising gold eyes were on him, Ferox could feel their weight. He was sure little ever escaped their notice, and if anything ever did, reactions and wit were sufficiently fast to stoop and strike down that which was overlooked. Zevran wasn't much of a Crow, more like some swift hawk, eagle, or other majestically sleek and strong bird. Belatedly he wondered just how well the elf could hear - Wynne hadn't been particularly quiet.

"Ah. Then that leaves the other part of her statement." A chunk of trail bread was torn off and chewed thoughtfully for a few seconds, "I was born in a brothel, I grew up in one. I have spent a great deal of time in brothels, frankly probably more time than anywhere else. Did you know that bordellos, whorehouses, cat-houses, whatever word you choose to use, have some of the most comfortable beds anywhere? Much better than an inn. Just bring your own linens if you are not a regular."

"I'll take it under advisement should we travel anywhere where there actually is one."

Another long drink was taken and as the cup was set down in the hollow made by partially crossed legs, "It is good that her picking will cease. It was tiresome as she sought to disassemble me and reassemble me like a puzzle and make me fit within her notions and categories. This way she has dismissed me as not worth her time. But, brothels, as work? It is not so bad. I have been assigned to several."

Coughing as he had forgotten to swallow his tea _before_ breathing, "'Assigned'?"

"Assigned, between contracts, my Warden. Crows still have to earn coin for the Guild even when not out killing people. In fact our jobs tend to be very diverse. Protection, bodyguard, espionage, chef, one Crow I was acquainted with was hired to become someone's husband for ten years, have a family and such, the contract was purchased by the woman's father. I suppose he wished to ensure that his daughter made some fat little babies and had a man that, until the contract was finished, would be completely faithful and devoted to her and any offspring that resulted," another shrug. "The perfect spouse. Being something like that, it requires flexibility. Some of us are lucky enough to be naturally able to slip into our roles, be it sexual or otherwise, to aid our work, but most...? They have to be trained in it."

"You said you never took your clothes off professionally if I recall," keeping his voice calm and level.

"Because I was not a _whore_. I was a _Crow_, contracted to fill a position. A whore is a whore when they go into that job and if or when they change professions they are no longer a whore, while a Crow is always a Crow. No matter the role they are in." Zevran's touch was light, more open than usual, resting on Ferox's knee, and there was uncertainty in the expression turned his way, "Does...my varied past...bother you?"

Quietly, "Should it?" It was such a fine line distinction, between whore or Crow in that description. Unable, unwilling to dissect the difference here, now surrounded by the entire company, it was put into the growling stack of things to think about later.

"For some, yes, it would. Used goods like myself tend to not be very popular unless they are antiques or to be discarded once whatever use they have is finished," levity was reached for along with typical self-depreciation. "I am not quite so old that I qualify as the former."

"Some people are stupid. I try not be amongst those who forget that we all have a past."

The relief was palpable though, the hand slipping away as he turned attention back to his meal, "Thank you."

Gaining the tent after his watch, Ferox found Zevran curled up as usual, but the braids that frequently held the hair from his face were undone. A lid popped open, a smile on the handsome face spread, and the hound was given a tap, the usual signal for him to scoot to the nighttime spot at the foot of the bedrolls. He was too bright, nearly blinding. Ferox couldn't measure up to that. Surely there had been those much better than what paltry offerings Ferox had to give, other beautiful people that the handsome, personable Crow could easily find who would appreciate his gifts...

Half of him wanted to take the next watch, to turn around and remove himself from the dark shadow he caused in the sun's presence. However that would be turning away and that turn would be rejecting Zevran, rejecting who he really was - not the suppositions that Wynne threw at him, or Leliana teased him about, or any one of them had said. Things even Ferox himself had thought in the beginning...surface, gloss, gilt...things that had nothing, or very little, to do with the man who shone underneath. Swallowing the reservations down, Ferox tied the flaps closed firmly and set aside boots and shirt the way Zevran had apparently as the day's shirt was folded nearby. Gingerly he climbed under the blankets assailed by doubts as to why Zevran would wish to spend time with someone that couldn't merely hand over what little was asked for.

As soon as he was under the blankets, "What can I do for you?"

A puzzled look swept the elf's face, "'Do for' me? I am content, _amora_."

Unwilling to reject and abandon Zevran, to take away what had already been given, what he would like to continue to give, Ferox risked being forsaken. "Good. Tell me of this contentment."

Flat on his back, wishing vainly for a mattress, Ferox slid an arm under to pillow Zevran's head. Holding his uncertainty and anxiety that he was not enough on a short leash, he wanted to lay in the warmth of the sun, to hear words washing over him as they had in the Deep Roads, to be reassured, safe, and wanted by the one beside him. In some ways, this too, was survival.

The elf stretched then made himself comfortable, arm over Ferox's waist, head on a shoulder, "There were miles walked, but no skirmishes fought. I took a buck almost as soon as I set out to hunt this evening, which is busy being dried into jerky - Bodhan has a crate with the haunches layered in the fats I seem to always be collecting, as well. Our keen nosed and most loyal friend dug up a good portion of root vegetables, and many herbs and such have been found today. We will eat well and it will not be _too_ bland. What I would give to find some bandits or raid a pantry with spices, I do not know, but it would be much. However that is just wishing for more when there is plenty, hmn?" Zevran's hand was lazily stroking Ferox's chest, occasionally wandering up to the shoulder and caressing the day's growth of beard he hadn't scraped off yet, a faint scratchy sound to it. "You appeared to be truly relaxed and in a good mood. It was the first time I had seen it, and allow me to inform you - it looked quite fine indeed. The statements of an old woman and my own past did not make you set me aside... With you, I belong. With you, I am safe. With you, I am accepted. How can I not be content, _amora_? These are...good things in my life."

When put like that, it was hard to deny that yes, those were good things. Even the little ones like having extra mint or berries to dry for tea. It had been a very good day when looked at in that light, other than the conversation with Wynne. If 'conversation' could be considered an applicable description. Feeling some of the tension begin to flow away, Ferox pressed his palm along the firm contour of Zevran's back, keeping him close. Still, Ferox found himself comparing what he was, wondering just how he measured up against all those others. With his limited experience in, well, basically _everything_, he must still be inadequate.

In the middle of the night Ferox woke, knowing this time what had brought him there. Lips were nipping lightly at his chest and shoulder, a familiar hand brushing over his face, thumb rubbing his temple. Rubbing the heel of his palm in an eye-socket until he was more aware, his arm tightened around the man beside him, the kisses not stopping but remaining a constant and slow flow, tugging him towards wakefulness.

Vague unease, a recollection of something nightmarish in his mind whilst sleeping, "Wha-?"

"A bad dream, _amora._" The assassin propped up on an elbow, leaning over to press his face to Ferox's forehead, inhaling and exhaling very slowly. "Are you alright?"

"Do darkspawn sleep? They are alive, that much is certain. They move during the day, they are sung to...called across Ferelden at night, so they must move then too." Wrapping his arms tighter around him, Ferox held on as he spoke, "I've never observed supplies like bedrolls or food. Ogres, now I know the answer to that question - saw one eating the soldiers at Ostagar. That one cracked my skull open...he seemed a little angry to have his dinner interrupted. So, I suppose I may have deserved it."

A hand went to his skull at that, easing through the hair that was held back, searching for the seam, "There is what the Chantry says about the darkspawn, but I have always been a greater fan of viewing such simple answers as allegory." Fingertips slipped along the crack, the dent all that remained, "Perhaps when they move by night they are asleep though? There is a state between waking and dreaming, some scholars make studies of it in Rivain, very dry reading, or so I am told, as I find the mind and its states endlessly fascinating, but to return to the information - they have found that people are very open to suggestion at these times."

Ferox withheld a snort, as it seemed that most things interested the Crow on one level or another, picking up facts and knowledge the way berry pickers would fill their baskets.

"It has been a long time since I last read on it, but there is a book of accounts of those who have been controlled by blood mages. They said it was like a dream, that reality was warped, dream-logic ruling them." Musing, "In the Trenches you thrashed and spoke far more than usual, most nights there is a bit of murmuring, mostly about small things - someone's bread rolls being burnt, another about having to check your gear, why the sun was so bright, most of it making little sense. But in the Trenches it was...different. As though if your body was not paralyzed with sleep, you would be up on your feet, ready to march, or at least stagger. Yet, time cycles, day or night, they do not matter below ground, it then poses the question - what if they are in some state between awake and sleep? Caught in some web that has twisted them to monstrosities? At least the original ones, the Magisters who supposedly blackened the Golden City, who then gave rise to more of their kind? Spreading like bad blood magic?"

"Combined with something Alistair said on the first night we actually slept, that explains the reason... Supposedly, and this is only verified with a tiny sample group of two, mind you, Wardens made during the Blight have stronger dreams. Is it because of the blood used, from ones who have actually heard the song? Because it had to be fresh. Wardens made before the Blight, wouldn't have had that factor."

Zevran made a sound of curiosity, "Darkspawn blood? Filthy stuff, which you were quite adamant about making sure all of us know not to it get near our mouths or eyes or wounds and to flush the above with very strong stuff on the offchance. Which, after seeing Ruck, well, I could see why first hand it would be unwise. But if we were to have only a small amount, would that make us Wardens?"

"No, the mages prepared the concoction, there must be something else to make it...safe enough to consume...well 'safe' is relative. Alistair also said that old Wardens heard the song loudly too and that to satisfy this Calling they went to the Deep Roads to die," unable to suppress the shudder at being trapped underground. "But old Wardens wouldn't have been created with blood from ones that heard the song, it was before. That part hurts my head."

Zevran rolled onto his back, arms crossing by the way they shifted, his head remaining pillowed, and part of his shoulder as well, on Ferox. "Hmn... Antivan Wardens are almost always pulled from four types of people. The Dalish clans, the nomads who people the steppes with their horses and such, the mercenaries of the Free Blades, and Crows. And those four groups - they travel. The general populace are not fighters. Warriors or those with any real skills at defending and attacking come from those groups."

"What? No mages?" surprised.

"Mages? Not as such, no. Shaman, Keepers, ah...the apostates I suppose the Chantry would call them, if they dared to say that beyond closed doors in Antiva. All of them are healers, in one form or another, often with connections to blood magic," a hand was waved. "Or spirit magic. My knowledge beyond a few of them is limited. But they are a protected class, so long as they do not enter politics and only dispense healing, the apostates of Antiva City are usually a master and an apprentice. They can only charge what the patient can afford. They provide other services as well, mind healers to some degree, they also are artists of the flesh - like my tattoos. The fact that they tend to use blood magic, and subtly at that, likely makes them better candidates." A thoughtful pause, "_If_ blood magic is connected to that. The shaman I knew, who settled down and set up shop there, she frequently would say to those who have nightmares, particularly of demons, 'I do not fight them, I sit down and them to have some tea, but ask for nothing and make no deals, just tell them to pass the cookies.' Apparently she views, and was taught, that the Circle style of fighting demons actually wears one down, causing a mage to be _easier_ to become an abomination. When one is not well rested, one makes sloppy mistakes. If Sa'id were alive and here, he would likely have a unique take on it as he made no bones about being a maleficar... And using it to control his patients."

Like the large stone and metal gears that were strangely quiet even as they sang in the dwarven city, Ferox could almost hear the cogs turning in the Crow's mind as he thought. What was said was enough to make his temples throb, a sick feeling in his stomach, but at least he would have several weeks worth of thought for the tramping on the road. For a man who was a strangely devout Andrastian, Zevran easily spoke on forbidden and banned education that any Ferelden Templar would be willing to brand the elf as a heretic just for knowing and would be willing to show him the Sword of Mercy.

Seeking some distraction from that, "Maleficarum operate openly in Antiva? But - the Chantry."

"They do not operate as mages or maleficar or apostates," it was absentminded, clearly still thinking things over and picking at the puzzles. "They are herbalists and they lay ink into flesh upon request or other adornments. That is where they make their livings. Some are poor, some are vastly rich. Some have waiting lists of years just to touch up faded ink. Others charge a handful of pennies or a day's meal. They do not own businesses beyond the business of their shop, they own no more land than their residence and shop. They own no slaves, if they require servants, they hire them. _Pintores de la llona_ do not control others, that is how they remain separate and safe from the Chantry in Antiva. Remember, _amora_, the Chantry's hold on Antiva is...not what it is in other places. It is too far from Val Royeaux and too close to Minrathous. And it is a massive trade center. Goods from Par Vollen come through Rivain or Antiva before moving elsewhere. Truthfully I wonder sometimes if the only reason we pay lip service at all is because we do not feel like losing trade rather than a fear of another March. Or in the hopes for another March if the Qu'nari decide to get vocal." A grunt, muttering, "Ah, yes, that would make sense... Bah, if only I had access to the Library."

In the beginning, the constant talking was annoying because it sounded like just needing noise, from all of them, but Zevran was the worst. The one-sided conversations frequently ventured into subjects he too had been thinking of, and engaging anyone on the topic would have been undesired, because that would have meant that he would have had to acknowledge that he actually cared. And that was something which was very dangerous, risky. Already aware that what was...who was cared for, could be easily taken away in the dead of the night, it was an exchange that Ferox had been unwilling to to engage in. 'Where are we going?', 'What is for dinner?', 'You on that emissary?' - all safe topics. The whys and what-fors, his daily thoughts on the road, that was too close. He would have had to admit the existence of others beyond them being part of the changing scenery.

Somewhere that had changed, at least in regards to Zevran. Was it the vulnerability shown in the Deep Roads? If this life was ever repeated, Ferox made a note to avoid that place next time, even while admitting that much had been accomplished. This easy communication, the sharing of his actual thoughts, must have come from there. Didn't remember doing that beforehand, even Before-before, his thoughts and theories equally taken in and mirrored. Some trust must have been built when he wasn't looking. That was as frightening as the rest of what Zevran seemed to want from him. If they both survived, this connection might be a good thing, but if the light were put out...one of those towers on the road would look very tempting.

Ferox found his hand lifted, palm kissed and Zevran gave a shake of an unseen blond head, then kissed Ferox's mouth before re-situating, "Tomorrow is a new day, so the saying goes, ponderings can wait for the road. Shall we rest then?"

Inhaling deeply, Ferox rubbed his face to Zevran's, asking for another taste of that light. "Yes."

There had been a laugh one night when it was put forth that Wynne needed to be awakened on a regular basis, just for a sense of justice being done. Otherwise they were still discrete even though every one knew and ribbed Zevran more than himself, but it was more open affection than he had received as far as he could ever recall. A hand brushing past his with fingers briefly tangling, fingers sliding when passing something to the other, a shoulder bumping into him, the grasp of a hand pushing his shoulder down, before booted toes tapped the back of his baldric, so that the assassin could use him as a launching pad. The last thing, of which the very recollection of sent Ferox's heart pounding, when at the time it had just seemed natural, made him break out into a sweat. It was too easy to see how the slightest error could have caused harm, and that was not even mentioning, for all practical purposes, flying into the mouth of Flemeth. Even though the Crow had veritably rode her winding and snapping head to the ground, it still made Ferox faintly queasy.

But now they were heading into the Coastland Mountains for a place to winter and on the word of a fallen noble family turned merchant, looking for a forgotten Warden stronghold, and Zevran was huddling against Ferox, clinging to the mug of hot water, sipping it. There was no care for the fact that this wasn't discrete at all, it was unsubtle, but he had to admit, other than the cold, and Zevran's constant shaking, it was comfortable. One handed he made sure that his cloak enfolded Zevran better as they sat beside the fire, checking to make sure that ears were covered by the furry flaps with a glance. The gear they tackled the winter with was better this time by far, particularly Zevran's, who finally had enough to keep him protected, at least comparing what had once been brought.

"Braska! I always wondered what mountains would be like, now I know - and I swear, I will never willingly go to these blasted peaks again, _even if_ the Pillars are supposed to be milder!" it was said with a flick of a chattering smile at him, then a glance towards Wynne who was scowling.

Drawling, "And here I was considerin' climbin' all of the highest peaks all over Thedas. Puttin' a Cousland banner at the top of each of them. Becomin' a mountain man, telling tales of blizzards, of eatin' raw frozen bear, of chewin' my own leg off when it got caught in'a trap, and of tall trees that exploded when frozen. Go to town every spring and sell what had been trapped over the winter, then drink everythin' up only to start all over again. Certain you wouldn't join me?"

"Only if you keep me warm!"

Rumbling, "I'll keep you more than just warm." Ferox was tempted to add an endearment, but that was pushing his sensibilities, riling up Wynne or not.

Amber eyes lit up, and not solely for the game of making silliness and fun. "Oh, now that sounds like a promise." Wynne made a noise, Leliana giggled, Alistair moaned, Oghren belched, Sten said nothing, and Morrigan snorted. The hound just wiggled closer to he and Zevran, butt wriggling. Zevran, for his part leaned closer once the others stopped paying attention, voice lowering, "A sample of that warmth would be welcome whenever you choose,_corizon._"

Ferox's own suggestion which had been half in jest, on reflection didn't sound bad, so he again shared actual thoughts with the new addition, "I figure if I can have a dream of sleeping indoors with a real mattress and not bathing in a stream, my daydream might as well have a cherry on top."

The mug was sipped from contentedly, the smile it didn't really hide from the angle Ferox was looking, was warmer than any cup of tea could be. "How interesting that you have been sharing my own night-wishes."

They always started with the familiar, if not a massage, then at least tasting. Ferox was aware it had to be very slow going for Zevran. The only time impatience ever was shown was if Ferox wouldn't allow the elf to check over an injury if one had been sustained. Or if the assassin thought that Ferox was pushing himself too fast, constantly holding the steps to a speed that could be maintained. In the forest after the ruins, at the outskirts of the Dalish camp, plenty of privacy still afforded, lips had joined fingers in some of the explorations, and in Denerim there had nearly been more, but the Crow had been correct - pushing his steps too fast led to upset and tension, self-disappointment that he hadn't been able to bring himself to go farther. But that was past, feeling like months rather than the weeks to march from Denerim to the Coastlands, winter coming to the rising ground faster until their only option was to go forward. It was good that they had laid in so many supplies, Shayle lending its strength after a bit of cajoling from the elf pressed up against him.

That entire scene had made Ferox want to grab the Crow and kiss him soundly as the great theatre of yanking on a cart with much noise and upset discomfort on his fine features, only to fall flat, had been priceless. Shayle had scoffed about the 'squishy creatures' and had rather willingly lent a shoulder to drawing another cart. Levi said his family was nearby and could be called upon to bring supplies and join them at the Soldier's Peak so long as it was reached within the next few days, with any old spells and undesirable problems dealt with. Worst case if it wasn't sound enough for winter, the mountains were riddled with caverns, that with Oghren and Bodhan's 'stone-sense' could be found. That was what they had been doing for camps as often as possible, no matter that the pressing stone had been difficult to bear.

The stop for lunch was over and they carried on. Zevran peeled away from the group when he spotted tracks, grabbing his bow and quiver, as well as a long spear to go with the emergency pack all had been admonished to carry, and Ferox had motioned for the hound to go with him. The bow would be little good in the damp, but if it held for a single shot, then that was good. Hours later camp was settled and Zevran hadn't returned. Worry began to gnaw as the darkness became deeper. It was too cold for the Antivan to be out, even dressed as he was with the mabari in tow. Wild barking grabbed attention, and Ferox was up, the others already reaching for weapons.

But familiar wild laughter was with that barking too. "Braska! This thing is heavy!"

Meeting Zevran and Horse, who both had lengths of rope tied about their chests, hauling two carcasses, the extra blankets had been used to fashion a travois. Stopping dead in his tracks at the size of the elk and to his utter shock - a snowcat. A big one. They did travel great distances, but they were better suited than wolves for the farthest south areas, while the wolves stayed north. There was much shock and surprise and they all set to butchering the prizes, fat carefully scraped from flesh to coat and set to protect the precious food. Later it could be used for fuel or more food in a pinch. He basically told the two madly successful hunters to go lay down after a healing while the others took care of everything else. At the rate they were going, an actual travois or three would need to be made to carry the fresh supplies.

Entering their tent to see Zevran wiping down from a steaming bucket, "How'd you manage that?"

"Hmn? Found some firerock, look - warm bath," pointing with a smile, scrubbing at an underarm.

Making a face, "Alright, why didn't I think of that? Or you think of that earlier? But that's not what I meant - how did you manage the cat and the elk?"

"Hmn...the elk was what I was searching for, the cat took exception to my not relinquishing my kill, or being on the menu as well, and sought to rectify it. Instead, the tables were turned. Though, if your good hound was not with me, then it is likely it would have been different, yes?"

"Very different. I meant, hauled it all back? Although now that you mention it...the cats aren't exactly _friendly_ either.

A waved hand and using a dirty shirt to dry off with, "Rope, rope, canvas and blankets, hmn? Between Ser Hound, hah - you know, that would make a good mabari name - Ser Hound, Surround, eh? Get it? Hmn, I am ridiculously awesome," too busy laughing at his own joke. Clearing his throat once, the assassin looked at Ferox, "A good harness, two strong backs, a spear to keep shoving in the snow to help drag us along - and a good chunk of time. Honestly, once I was halfway, I seriously considered just focusing on that overgrown housecat, and finding the way back to the elk after getting more backs and legs to help. But it was falling dark and, frankly that was not a situation I wished to be caught out in either way."

"Ridiculously awesome or not, Wynne's healing was short at best," disgruntled at their healer.

A hand was presented, fingers waved side to side, then the other hand, then both feet and then ears swiveled. "No frostbite, _amora._ No concussion, just the adrenaline of a good thrill a few times in one day."

"Nevertheless, stand up, spin around and show me your bite marks, and saying that they're mine will win no points for the day."

Zevran stood, stooped in the tent, black ink hiding some of the holes, and Ferox was never so grateful for the strength of drakeskin, as the teeth and claws hadn't gotten in very far. Far enough to need care, but nothing life threatening.

"I wish you had allowed for heavier armor." The signature growling had set in, despite good intentions, "Let me finish cleaning what you cannot see then get these dressed."

"_Amora, mi amora,_ if I had been in heavier armour I _would not_ be here. My defense is speed, agility and stealth. Heavier armour ruins that. What I have is strong enough, I can patch it with that skin we peeled off from that little lizard two caves back, hmn?" The Crow stretched out to allow for the repairs to flesh, "Strength and intellect are the other defenses, but armour does not affect that, hmn."

"At the moment, I believe you are trying to bribe me, to soothe my anger at the situation, at Wynne, at myself on not sending another..."

Interrupting, "And at myself, for not field butchering the carcasses and returning to gain others. Cold as it is, sometimes I forget that this is not Antiva, that hunting alone is often deadly - rather than owing to flora and fauna as I am accustomed to, but to weather." Zevran glanced at him over a shoulder, "I am sorry, _amora._"

Disarmed, which happened often enough when sparring with Zevran, Ferox learned to keep other weapons at hand. It was how he had gotten better with a shield, or sometimes resorted to other weapons which were not his speciality. It had become a bit of a game, this however, was no game, was not amusing, and frankly, it scared him.

Ferox continued to clean then salve the punctures, "I am sorry too," uncertain if it was for growling, not sending another with him, or for leaving a weakness in his defenses. Depending on how it was looked at and by whom, this opening was either being exploited by or filled by an elf, who was a Crow, an assassin, a scoundrel and, Maker preserve us, a foreigner.

But there was confusion, "About what? You did nothing, certainly nothing stupid. I own my mistakes, _amora_. So I can see no reason to be sorry."

"Oh, there are many reasons, I assure you. First of which that I know the weather and yet did little other than to put you at risk." Packing one of the bites with a poultice that was sticky with harvested beeswax and honey, "Leliana may not like getting her dainty boots wet, and an archer may not have been very productive given the humidity, but she moves quieter than most. Better yet, as she is more attuned to cities, send myself...yes without the heavy, sink-in-the-drifts armour. I hunted regularly with my father beginning at a very young age which is why Horse knows what he's doing."

"'Horse'?" absolute confusion until the mabari in question woofed, nosing at a brown, bare foot. "Ah - you have a name at last, well it is good to meet you, my friend," leg snaking out to rub a large head receiving a happy panting smile from the mabari. "I am grateful for your fortuitous rescue and the good advice you have given me thus far this year, but you really should learn to not leave so much slobber behind when raiding packs - it is a dead giveaway."

"He has always had a name." True, the hound's name wasn't Horse, per se, but that could remain a secret as it wasn't important. To the mabari in question, "No, don't lick me, just because I decide to foolishly introduce you. You'll make me sorry and I'll change your name to Puss, and since I can't shout that into the forest or anywhere near a town, you can be called Cat."

Zevran deadpanned, "Meow."

"You, ser, aren't funny either and I have half a mind to drag an insolent mage in here to finish her work." Growled muttering, "Healing one fully and not the other then begging off that she did not have enough energy. We met nothing today on the trail worse than ourselves and a brace of rabbits.

"If you drag her in, you must give me a moment so that I am properly 'attired' first," propping a chin on a fist. "So that she can be greeted with good, Antivan manners. Just imagine her expression, _amora._ That would make having an overgrown kitten take a swipe and nibble completely worth it."

"If I did bring her here it would be for a healing, not a rant. But that is an amusing thought." Finding another puncture, "What did you do, let the creature hug you?"

Zevran chuckled, "That is precisely what happened. It was that or let it land on my back, instead swinging to the side, I allowed it to greet my spear first before I let it get a hug and _dos besos_."

"Two what?"

"_Besos_ - kisses. How we greet in Antiva - new people that we are introduced to, we take the other's shoulders in hand and press a quick kiss to each cheek. Those we know better it is a full upper body embrace with two kisses," leg waving lazily now that it was bandaged and cleaned. "Children get picked up for their hug and _besitos_, which are usually many kisses."

Remembering the Orlesian 'baiser' to kiss, it was similar enough word to be remembered and understood. "Alright, turn over and let's see these hug marks." Ferox pulled back, fingers still sticky with salve.

The elf did as requested, somehow still smiling, "Ah, why is it that I find your irritated expression so warming? Ah, I know - because I was hurt and you worried over me. I think you might be one of a very slim number of people to ever do that, _amora._"

The little that made it through the chest armour, was already clean, "I can hardly believe that few worry about you. As for my concern, most of that was expended during your delayed return," the frown deepened.

"Zamitie, Anicada, my cat Tigress, Rinna when she was alive, Taliesin at one point, Sa'id. That would be all, and I have known and do know, a great many people, _mi amora_," fingers were held up, counting them down. "Two are dead, one is fourteen years old and that is very old for a cat, so she is likely dead as well. One is hunting us, the last two who are alive are unlikely to know one way or another for a long time, but have always known that I am in danger so have learned to keep on with their lives. Therefor, yourself being one of the only other people...it is a very short list. The ratios are completely skewed, hmn?" The hand that had been counting moments before reached out to cup Ferox's cheek, "As much as I would not wish for any concern, least of all on my account, it makes me feel...comforted that I matter to another."

Turning his head slightly, Ferox kissed the brown palm, "I think I know what you mean, I'm struggling with that myself. It is easier to be on one's own, yet harder as well. Easier and at the same time, more difficult to be with others. Eh, I just keep thinking that the dream, or nightmare depending on the day, will end soon enough and I'll wake up."

Sitting up, the Crow tugged him into a tight embrace, "Whether the Blight ends tomorrow or a decade from now, I will remain beside you whenever you awaken."

"I'm afraid I might have to hold you to that, should you think of scampering off into the woods again, or be looking for a handy city to lose yourself in. Speaking of which, you never did say what that Slim fellow in Denerim, who wasn't very slim at all, wanted from you."

"Just a few errands, some breaking and entering, bit of pilfering, tweaking of Howe's nose and similar. Though Ignacio would like me to return to Orzammar for a quick job, possibly doing those errands for him will buy us more of the Guild's goodwill, as apparently from the information I got from Slim and that old buzzard, Taliesin is set up by the docks, waiting." Laying down once more, "The coin earned is good, but the information - that is more useful. My old comrade is stepping on toes and while Ignacio would clearly love nothing more than to remove that thorn, he cannot do so. The House of Crows would frown upon it. However, if a rogue Crow did so...what else was imparted to me is that other than the Guild instructing Ignacio to not hinder Taliesin, they also instructed him to assist us - apparently they are no longer certain that Loghain would be a good choice to end the Blight as he has done nothing except to gear up for civil war and 'dealing' with the 'Orlesian Threat', that is no threat at all."

Taking a bronze hand in his, he began working on the muscles, partially to check for strain, but mostly just to touch the assassin, "Then what is it? Granted the darkspawn have pulled nearly everything away, except for local militia's, from the small towns and villages. This has opened the borders, but Loghain is not one to jump at shadows. He normally has good reasoning. I understand leaving the Wardens and the King to their fate, they were overrun, that much was clear from the view from Ishal. It was a fast flowing river of darkspawn that not even the army could hold.

"He has become paranoid, so the palace word says." The hand tensed just enough to hold his a moment, "It is fed and stoked. My brief encounter of him, even more than a year ago, showed a man who...well, I have seen great men fall, _amora._ Whatever he once was, he is that no longer and has not been for quite some time. It hung about him like a far too heavy and sodden cloak."

"Cailen was the only son, as far as Loghain knows, of Maric. Guilt would be a very understandable reaction."

"It was not recent, a slow decline, recently made strong." Shrugging, "Or that is what I saw in the one formal minute I was face to face with him. However, I watched him for an hour or so, and another after Howe showed me the boot."

"That particular man has a date with the family sword and shield. A date I am greatly looking forward to. As for Loghain, his fate has yet to be decided, I would prefer for him to join with us as he still has influence, the backing of the army, and that would go a long way towards healing some of Ferelden's wounds or as least save its sorry ass from the Archdemon."

"I believe after all the hiking you have done that the least you are owed is a vacation, _amora_. If Loghain is alive by the end of this, let him accept any titles they try to heap on you out of 'gratitude' and let us settle and be scandalous as you rule your teyrnir." Scooting beneath the blankets, Zevran shivered once, "For now all I can offer to heap you with is myself and blankets, though perhaps that is more for my chilly self than you."

Salve returned to the assassin's pack, Ferox settled in the familiar dents that cradled his spine, "My small kingdom is currently reduced to the contents of this tent, a hound, two sets of armour and a few weapons, but you are welcome to it and what warmth I can provide."

Arms slipped around him, burrowing close, "A pauper or a king, or anything in between, it only matters that you are yourself, _amora_, and allow me to be present in your kingdom."

Real laughter shook him ruining his 'complaint', "Bloody elf, if I threw you out now I'd let the cold back in and besides every time I leave, you follow. Should change your name to Horse." Squeezing Zevran tightly, the amusement reduced to a rumble, "I am glad you are so persistent. Couldn't imagine doing any of this without you here like this."

"Then do not," echoed words, warm breath on his neck. Teasing gently, "If for no other reason that you are accustomed to my presence, hmn?"

What was still occasionally hard to be accustomed to was the presence of thick hardness trapped between them, hot skin radiating, flexing time to time, the weight resting against his thigh. Even clothed, oddly before, even when the elf would sate needs while Ferox kissed and held him, the awareness hadn't been so strong. But now it was as though every time they relaxed, it was suddenly 'present', suddenly 'there', suddenly 'real' and completely fascinating, like the rest of Zevran. The first time together hadn't been a fluke with the multiple releases, once in Denerim there had been no fewer than five that Ferox counted. It was a mystery as to how it was possible, or why it happened with him. Ferox had gathered the courage to ask if that was normal, to which was replied that it was for an elf, and that Zevran was content with one or two, that more than a couple was pleasant but not necessary.

"So what's the maximum, just out of curiosity?" as he rubbed at Zevran's hip, thumb running a circle near the deep line of tendon.

"The maximum? Of what _amora_?" the purring that Ferox liked starting as a shoulder was rubbed by a prickly cheek.

"Assuming one wasn't rubbed raw, or fell over from exhaustion or any other natural cause or act of the Maker, what would be the maximum number of times you could physically ejaculate in one sitting, as it were." If that wasn't clearer, Ferox didn't know what was.

The purring stopped, slightly startled before laughing, "I have no idea, _amora._ It is true I have...experimented to athletic proportions, but anything beyond a dozen within two hours is more than I would prefer at absolute max... However I believe during a contest of endurance when I was twenty I totaled somewhere along the lines of five days having sex in a row, and...I believe they stopped counting at some point during the second day. Or was it day three...? I do not recall, I was rather inebriated. And sore. But we did stop for food, drink, and the much needed physical matters of washing the areas in question - quickly though, and other such things. No sleep though."

Zevran cleared his throat, "Keep in mind that I was quite young at the time, truly not long out of pubescence, so my body was...let us just say...difficult to manage at times. Hence some of the assignments I was given. But a _shemlen_ Crow did not understand why he was passed over for the 'desired' assignment, and demanded...well. Not a 'duel', but far more than a 'competition'. Some of those rumours about elven sex drive are not untrue. We just do not like to be describe as 'animals in heat and/or rut'. No matter if there are a few years when that truly is an apt description... Apparently I was worse than most. My Master was greatly displeased with us. One of my fellows had his heart rupture trying to keep up and myself and my challengers were no good for any work for weeks afterwards - a Crow dead and four unable to do anything as we were too fatigued. And there was the minor fact that we were banned from the seven brothels we visited...for life." Zevran coughed delicately, "I was raised and taught that sex is an art-form, that it is best when it is done well, that giving less than what I am willing and able to is disrespectful. Up to a certain age for me it was an act of meditation and relaxation in any form it took. It was not until some point with Rinna that it became an act of other things beyond the physical." Another pause, "...There _is_ a reason I have to take matters in hand several times a day."

Although the question of age had been trying to distract him from the rest of the conversation, Ferox had been rather quiet until that point. "Wait. What?" Smacking the heel of a palm into his eye socket and rubbing vigorously in disbelief. "But we only...in the evenings...sometimes in the morning too..."

Zevran hid his face in Ferox's shoulder, "I press often enough. And I hate waking you. And asking for a 'hand' around lunch time when I go off to take a piss... Honestly those are just to relieve the tension that builds, not for enjoyment. There was this one time Maestro Pedro locked me into a chastity belt for two weeks for some infraction or other. _Two weeks._ Let us just say that by that point I made your foulest mood look pleasant. He regretted it greatly for the eight hours it took him to die from lanthrax..."

Ferox was forced to narrow his vision, or rather his hearing. The entire disclosure was there and no doubt the words and explanations would be listened to over and over until he was tired of them. But the important bits had been sieved out...or more accurately, what he perceived was important. The other things, he had shoved in a corner and wasn't looking at, or rather, listening to.

"I like to be woken up by you," softly. "And it occurs to me that I have put some restrictions on our activities that I no longer desire."

"Ferox," Zevran's tone wasn't sharp, but it was something between chiding and warning. "That was not said to pressure or to compare. I was trying to answer truthfully, nothing more. We give our all with whatever acts we do. That is all I desire, require, or request."

"Other than asking things I probably shouldn't because the question flies out of my mouth before I can stop it, you should know by now that if I have said something it is because I have thought about it for some time." Threading a hand through Zevran's loose hair, "Such is the case here, not rash words to be regretted, but ones with many miles behind them. There is no pressure or comparison, the conversation was merely a reminder that I had already come to a decision several days previously on this subject."

Noting that the usually talkative elf, wasn't, "I'm just saying that I'm done thinking about it, have made up my mind, and am moving on to a new thing to puzzle over. Yes?"

The Crow hugged him tighter, "I would not harm you so that is why I am uncertain."

Ferox was about to say something but the words stilled on his lips as the Antivan kissed him. That was always what happened first, many times that was all it was, and many times there would be more. Slowly Zevran disengaged and went to the bucket and his pack, pulling out a couple vials of firerock, uncorking them and depositing them in the bucket, so that warmth radiated from the bucket. He returned with one of the little pots of unguent to set beside their bedroll but left it corked, and Ferox raised the blankets for him to get back under them, tugging the elf back into his arms. In the Frostback Mountains, following slim leads to a way to save Arl Eamon, Ferox had wanted nothing more than to kick the assassin from his bed. Now, he didn't know how to deal with the thought of Zevran _not_ being beside him at the least. It was disconcerting what nearly a year could do.

In some ways it was _more_ disconcerting in light of what he knew about the Crow that the man had been so patient with him. It didn't happen all the time, but there were instances where Ferox couldn't stop slamming into the wall of not understanding _why_ the elf wanted to be near him, beyond the simple need for body heat when the temperatures plummeted in a free-fall.

As the tent warmed further from their bodies and the Crow's quick thinking, Ferox glanced towards the bucket, "Have I mentioned that you're my favourite elf in this whole wide tent - nay, the whole, wide camp, even."

Zevran's lips quirked, "Hmn, truly? My that is a very large quantity of elves to choose from, and I am your favourite?"

"An elf amongst...well an elf," returning to laughter. "As I said, I have a very small kingdom."

"It is all the kingdom needed, _amora_," said with an answering grin followed by a kiss.

Rubbing his hand over Zevran's side, his hand ached the way it did randomly during the day or night, wishing to hold the elf and feel thick veins pulsing against his palm. Even though he knew he could have that whenever he wanted it, Ferox always began with the first thing. The important thing. The taste of sunshine, that thing that could banish the winter outside, the darkness inside, and leave a merrily dancing light that nothing could touch, so long as it was there. He always took as long as possible there, basking in the beam of sunlight that sifted into the dusty dark below, bringing with it the hope of day and life along with its clean air. When he was tired and thought he couldn't shoulder the next day, let alone the night, it was there, waiting for him to step into that and go closer to the exit. Leading him through the storm like a lighthouse, helping him navigate the shoals. How the sun could think itself somehow lesser or not enough was baffling and wrong, and in that moment Ferox thought himself very foolish for having ignored that exit to safety for as long as he had.

How many times he had touched and held Zevran close didn't seem to matter much, there was always the thrill of discovery. The texture of neck or the sound it caused might be the same as the time before, but it still sounded new. His sun-drenched lover guided his hand to the hardness between them as it always did, giving permission and requesting for the familiar steps to commence. Finding his way there, sinking lower, the warmth of their bodies having filled the space beneath the blankets, Ferox re-explored sensitive skin, rubbed his cheek against the downy coppery-blond-brown curls and listened to the sounds of hunger from above. Dark skinned legs parted allowing him to settle, but Ferox wasn't left untouched, hands worked at his braid, thighs embraced and stroked against him as his tongue slid and tasted his way up and down and around the powerful arousal. Taking in as much as he could, just wanting to feel it, swallowing several times no matter that he could go no farther, knowing and remembering himself, just how good that felt. And he was rewarded by a groan, the shallow roll of hips - all signs that the dance was being carried forward according to the plan in place and set there through careful searching.

Hand exiting the blankets to reach for the jar that sat in its customary place, uncorking it by feel and taking what was needed, he gently stroked along the crevice to make sure it was slick enough. A second dip of fingers into the jar and his mouth still tonguing at Zevran's cock as he began the play of digits around the ring of muscles, each touch causing the elf's hips to twitch towards him in search of more. It wasn't until the pleading whimper the panting sound of his name that Ferox allowed himself to feel the interior heat. From there it never took long, especially when he ran his hand over his assassin's chest, reaching towards the face and receiving nipped and sucked fingers for the trouble. There was a warning, given to let him know, not to stop him, but to give him the option, one he never took. Salt spurted over his tongue and he sucked harder, a stream of unintelligible sounds and grasping muscles that became a moan then turned to a snarl.

Returning to the air of the tent, hand pulling away gradually to not do harm, his mouth was taken and claimed instantly with Zevran's wanting lips, hands tightening in his hair, leaving Ferox breathless. The only thing that could be considered unpredictable was whether the assassin would be direct or meander, depending very much on his mood, but that too was familiar. Rumbling as he caught his breath, it was a constantly starting and stopping thing, entirely due to whatever Zevran was doing. Sucking kisses were strewn across his chest, down his hips, to his thighs, thumbs rubbing behind his sack firmly as lips parted to suck one testicle then the other, firm enough to tug, but far from hard enough to hurt. Then the unscripted part began, slowly, gently, coaxingly. A leg was propped up, his sack pushed aside and lips began there. That was when Ferox had had to ask Zevran to stop last time, but this time he just wanted to feel. The brief touch from the last new experience had haunted him as it _had_ felt good, it was just too much at the time for whatever reason that was unimportant and couldn't be recalled at the moment. Slick teasing sent a shudder through him, bidding Ferox to open himself further, going tortuously slow at the same time.

Farther south that mouth travelled, barely moving it seemed like for long minutes until he would have to bite his tongue or risk whimpering, which probably happened anyway. So it went until there was kissing and lapping and swirling at him, and Ferox just wanted more, the rumbles stopping only for the groans that came as the strong muscle pushed firmly and slid in, then out, only to repeat. Muscles tight in his legs, feet managed to plant themselves, his hips tilting to ask for more, anything would do so long as there was no stopping. It was a struggle to not take his manhood in hand to add that to the flexing tide that was the plane he existed in, but he refrained, hanging on, not wishing to rush. Without thinking, Ferox took the jar, sliding it beneath the blankets to bump against Zevran's hand where it wrapped around his leg. The Crow didn't stop working with his mouth, hand touching the jar to see what it was before taking some and then there was a different press, a single finger finding its way into his body while that tongue slid around the opening repeatedly, easing the passage of the strong digit. A second came, but from the other hand, each rubbing the passage in different ways, and Ferox found his back curling forward, uncontrollably shaking as he was also being swallowed in one long push, and he grabbed for Zevran's head. It wasn't to push him away, but to hold him closer, unable to stop his hips from rising, and whatever sound he made it was helpless and Ferox thought his mind would flee from the onslaught.

Choking, "More," head thumping as his toes curled, scrunching soft bedding.

Zevran was some how able to hold him at the precipice, backing off before orgasm was forcefully imminent, then moving in for more as soon as Ferox had_almost_ caught his breath. The world was impossible to comprehend, action was just something that others did, because he was unable to act beyond plead for more, rumbles long gone had been replaced by whines and whimpers. There was more, slowly, gently, gradually - yes, but it was more, much more. He barely noticed when Zevran would take more salve to add, just that each time he felt more open. Then suddenly it was overwhelming, there was a presence rubbing and stroking internally, massaging, but it was -

"_Maker!_" straining, grabbing, Zevran's shoulders from the vicinity of his waist, the hand inside him moving in a ripple, cupping and touching, and Ferox babbled, locking around the wrist to keep that hand inside his body.

"Shhh, _amora_, relax, let it happen, I am here," cheek resting over Ferox's breastbone, the other hand holding and working along shaft while the impossible stroking and twisting continued. Gold eyes shown like a cat's, catching and reflecting light from the blankets that had been pushed back to make a hood, watching Ferox raptly, "Braska, you are beautiful, _amora_."

Trembling, Ferox was overcome, unsure what he was feeling, but he was just unable to stop, held surrounded and containing the breadth of an entire sun. It was too much and his world exploded, heart thundering in his head and throat and stomach, blood pumping so strongly that he could feel it in his fingertips and in his tongue. It was no free-fall - it was a wild leap, headfirst, diving towards the ground, arms out to embrace it, and shattering as he was welcomed at once, reassembling but awareness of anything outside of the molten reality was unimportant and not noted.

Gradually reality came back, the one where outside the tent, snow laden wind blew, roared really, but was barely heard over the ringing in his ears. The tent was hot somehow, the heat generated having filled it to capacity, even more than what the impromptu water-fire-heater invention could account for. There was also internal pressure, still filled, the motion stilled, and a lazily cleaned set of fingers were stroking his brow. Catching them, Ferox licked them until they were fully clean, then the palm, going over the hand until he was satisfied with it.

"I will need that back if I am to get the other one out without harm, _amora,_" pleased amusement and light teasing. "You have a very strong hold on me."

Blinking blearily, Ferox could only agree, "Yeah..."

More unguent was gathered, running along the orifice to coax it loose, almost too much, too good after the incredible fall he had taken. Zevran took his time, taking long pauses to help the muscles acclimate to their usual state. Finally the hand was free, a depressed moan at the absence issuing forth unbidden.

Zevran was sheepish as he lay beside him, "I had not intended on pushing the bounds quite so much...but you were enjoying it so much...and were so beautiful...I...could not stop."

Words were formed by moving one's mouth. Movement was attained by flexing one's muscles in a certain sequence. Concentrating with the two tiny bits of brain that were still baking in the noon day heat, Ferox eventually, days later, rolled to his side and pressed in face into the sun. He was fairly certain that he said something, the word began with a 'z' after that it could have been anything.

An arm curled around him, holding him securely, "You are unhurt?"

Was it a week later when his head finally obeyed his thoughts and nodded and and even more delayed, "Uh huh," was heard? Hopefully at least.

"Good," relief painting sculpted features. Zevran rearranged the blankets and blew out the lantern. "You do not mind if I take a few moments to finish myself?" Ruefully, "As much as I found my own climax watching you, my physiology is making demands of me quite vociferously."

A whimpered, "No, help self. I be riiiiiiight here." Listening to himself, Ferox wondered if he had been drinking. He was tracking the sun, just not with his eyes...

Zevran's hips worked, thrusting into the firm grip Ferox could feel at his stomach, until there was the moaning snarl. But he didn't stop, an arm worming under and around Ferox's shoulders, pressing close, face tucked into his neck, tongue licking at the sweat there, until several more of those releases came, the sound of it wet as Zevran worked himself into his hand, light tremors rocking the elven frame until he finally went lax.

Awaking wrung out and still buzzing from head to toe, Ferox groaned, pulling Zevran closer. For a brief second he wondered if he could just find a nice little plot of land with a small farmstead where he and Zevran could hide out and let the Blight pass them by, throwing all responsibility and accountability to the wind. But Blights took years to end, too much could happen, and they had already done so much it would be a waste to give it all up. Besides, even if what _he_ wanted personally was to just walk away, it wasn't what he could do. If Zevran asked, he might seriously consider it long and hard before saying no, yet it was unlikely such a thing would happen. Even if it would be a much better excuse than what he had come up with when trying to find a way to leave everyone on their own while Alistair and Flemeth badgered him.

The Crow yawned, nestling in closer and gave a quick lick to the angle of Ferox's jaw, "Mmmn, good morning my gorgeous _shem._" Brief brush of lips and a stretching arch, "How are you feeling, _amora_?"

"It's all good, 'cause I'm with you."

Contented noises, "Mmn, perhaps if we are lucky we will find the Peak today and rest indoors, now that would be luxury, but that means leaving this pleasant cocoon, a thought I do not wish to entertain overmuch, yet we must..."

"Entertain? Who?" a smack to an eye followed by a swiveling rub of the heel of his hand.

"Leaving the tent to tramp some more when I have a gloriously attractive and precious Ferox here beside me," leg tangling around Ferox's.

Still stunned with sleep, "But, this is nice here." For variety, he rubbed his other eye socket before blearily opening them. Pulling back enough to focus, "You are...very pleased with yourself."

There was what could only be classified by the limited words he could summon as 'dopey' grin Zevran's face, "And why should I not be very pleased with myself? I have never seen such pleasure on your face and to have been part of its cause - well, of course I am pleased with myself."

It might be snowing outside, but the sun was shining in his tent. "No, not part - you are the _only_ cause." Listening to the satisfied voice that reached out to coat him, it occurred to Ferox that there might be a way to slow down the morning. With a bit of careful shifting to avoid cold morning air from sneaking in to steal their warmth, Ferox settled on Zevran. Resting his ear over the elf's heart as eyes still filled with sand closed again, "Thank you for hittin' me upside the head."


	3. Chapter 3

And as always: Reviews make me squee! But constructive criticisms or thoughts are even better!

Title: Dream a Little Dream of Me  
Author: Rhion & **briala**  
Rating: AO  
Summary: Do me a favour - the next time I dream this, could you just hit me over the head until it gets through to me?  
AN: For briala for a nice little Festivus thing. Random character mumbling by Ferox lead to this hypothetical thing that could have happened during the Blight. That has apparently spawned a story. More than thirty thousand in. Blarg. Why no, I don't have other things to do with my time... Moderately beta'd, but there's certainly going to be things that slipped through the cracks. :evil grin: Hello punnage, how are you?

Contains: mutual masturbation, digital-anal, oral, oral-anal, anal, slash, het-dubcon (oral, vaginal), mention of rape.  
Pairing: M!Cousland/Zevran.

XXX

Winter settled in, the Peak was relatively cleared, and tents had been set up in the rooms, the enclosing canvas granting greater warmth and added privacy. Zevran and Ferox had 'appropriated' the Warden Commander's office as it had its own fireplace, small as it was after a bed had been salvaged and repaired to put in it too, but mainly because there had been several grouchy complaints. And not all of them had been from Wynne. Apparently he and the Crow were rather vocal, and with winter the frequency of being 'rather vocal' had increased. It wasn't like there was much else to do.

During clearer weather, Ferox and Zevran with Horse happily in tow, would go out searching for anything that could be scavenged. After a good hard freeze with Levi Dryden they had gone out as well, heading towards a town several days away, trading pelts that had been gathered, except the snowcat's which Ferox was unwilling to let Zevran part with. Not even for ten sacks of onions. _Especially_not for ten sacks of onions. But cabbage, salt, buckets, shovels, crocks of jam, several large bales of hay, and a goat for milk - and meat when the fodder ran out - were paid for amply with carved bone handles and pelts that had been scraped beautifully. He had relented though and let the elf grab a few bags of onions, garlands of garlic, as many hands of ginger as could be begged to be traded, sacks of flour, potatoes and some cheese cloth. Some things were paid for with extra drakeskin scraps that had been fashioned into belts and one exquisite set of vambraces, bargains driven hard enough that Levi finally gave up and told Zevran to do his purchasing too. Little of their stores of coin were spent, only half of what had to be gained required precious gold, gold that would be needed for the long Blight ahead of them.

The entire group - the Dryden clan and the ragtag band - went about repairs as they could, husbanding their resources as more would not be easily gained. Pickled cabbage was made, frequently tossed into soups of meat and snow, filling, warming, and good to stretch what they had even further, while warding off rabbit fever. Zevran's little trick with firerock was employed throughout the areas where they all resided, providing further warmth to have when coming in from the cold. During a particularly sober hour, Oghren had said that he could feel a difference in the stone, refusing to listen to the others telling him it was nothing, and began hammering at a section of wall, Bodhan quickly joining him, and the resulting opening blew in a great deal of warmth, the scent of mineral laden water reaching them. Glowing lichen had made the berserker happy, as that meant he could set up to brewing some 'decent stuff' to drink without touching their stores. As for the others, Ferox included, the revelation and find of a hotspring was a grand boon. Not the least for the way Zevran tackled the water as often as he could, splashing and diving and playing about nearly like an otter.

One morning late in the winter, the start of spring in the lowlands of Ferelden due in just a handful of weeks, Ferox was staring at nothing, drowsy, and realized something. He was more than content. He was _happy._It was startling, when had this thing happened? Was there a moment he could point to and say that it was then that his life changed the way it had the night his world came crashing down? Or was it a collection of little pebbles that added into a landslide, changing the land that was in its path? Absentmindedly stroking the blond haired head on his shoulder, he pondered the situation. What would he do with this thing? Did he have to do anything about it? One moment he wanted to say something, but was brought up short by caution. Wynne's words, Zevran's own, and Ferox's experiences blended, reminding him of reality.

Nothing was permanent.

Here in the quiet safety of Soldier's Peak it was tempting to sink into that, to hold it tight, to deny the fact that anyone, at any time, could be torn from him. Or he from them. By his deeds, Ferox had already given himself away, had already shown his love towards this one beside him. But to cement it in words? He wouldn't do that to either of them until the Blight was over, the Archdemon slain. History was clear that going up against such a creature was very dangerous and many did not survive. To bind himself to another was unthinkable, no matter that he had already done so far more than was likely wise, let alone safe. And yet he wished for nothing more than to hold on to the sunlight, to never see it go dark, to never bring a shadow to it - either because it left him, or because he left it.

Yet between the two of them, Ferox was sure that the sun would survive if anything did happen to him. It had managed to do so before, and Zevran was nothing if not a survivor. He would last one way or another. Squeezing his partner closer, who made a sleepy noise, truly heavy in rest, a new occurrence, evidence of further ties, Ferox pressed his face into the golden crown, seeking the comfort there and in meticulously going over the supplies and plans that _could_be made.

Having handed down the Juggernaut set to Alistair, to spar, Ferox had been wearing the new heavy dragon plate, the strongest armor to date. As far as actual weight went, it was actually a little lighter than the ancient, spell resistant plate. Bodhan looked through his stores and located an excellent helmet with a similar design and thus Bergen's Honor was added to the set. They had set aside Cailan's armour, even though it was also excellent, as neither Alistair or himself were interested in wearing it, and it seemed presumptuous...for reasons neither of them wanted to discuss.

After their run-in's with multiple dragons, understanding from history that the Archdemon was nothing like them, merely in a similar form, Ferox knew that he had to keep the creature's attention. Without providing that focus point, the point where all violence should be directed, the others would be lost. Should Ferox fall, Alistair stood the next best chance of keeping that focus, followed by Sten in the Dragon Plate. The plans and backup plans were continually adjusted based on equipment, newly mastered skills, and acquired weapons. The trouble was, the battlefield was unknown, and in all likelihood would not be chosen by them. Nearly all of the pieces were available, the last to obtain would be the other half of the army and its general. The planned for future move against the self appointed crown was not something to be done lightly, which was why the treaties were fulfilled and gathered first.

As soon as the passes were clear enough for travel, they would strike down to Redcliffe at a fast march, avoiding towns as much as possible and living off the land. It wouldn't be pleasant, but the longer they avoided announcing their intentions, the better. Having spent the nearly three months without stirring up any trouble, the called Landsmeet would be startling and come as a shock. A surprise move. The bit of news that had been obtained during the last meeting in a town for supplies, nearly a month ago, was that nothing had changed politically since he and the others had burrowed in for winter.

Zevran pulled him back with a small, curious, but very much still asleep, "Mmn?" before rolling over partially onto his back once Ferox 'replied' with a nuzzle and press of lips to the dark forehead.

Now that he knew exactly what Zevran was like when in deep sleep, it made those first weeks, months, of feigned deeper sleep obvious. After he had told the assassin to stop worrying or thinking about what to do to remain where he was, Ferox had learned that the Crow awoke to noises that were remotely out of turn, and _every_noise in the tent or just outside of it. Now he slept, immovable and heavy, his breathing just the side of audible, lips parted, and making faces as eyes shifted beneath lids. That was recent, a product of being at the Peak, laying beside him and even if Ferox got up to move around, the elf remained asleep. Even leaving the room and returning was possible, a faint murmur that would question and Ferox would whisper that it was just him and he would either be right back or tell the Crow to go back to sleep.

Yawning, Ferox rolled onto his side, arm folded to remain used as a pillow for them both, and studied the sleeping profile, wanting to etch it into memory. With so much ahead uncertain this surety was solid ground that steadied him. At one point, after a particularly difficult afternoon filled with traps with wolves, then traps with darkspawn, he had snapped cold, foolishly, looking back. They had come so close that day to losing several of the company, a frightening thought considering previous losses on dark nights. Hardening himself, he had told himself that he did not care about them, cared only for their survival, he was on his way to freezing them out. Would have, until someone colder was freezing in his bed. Zevran's need had provided the opening, but it was his steadiness that had slowly warmed him. The vows he had made during that time were still in effect, but the intentions were different, the same words, changed only by perspective, encompassing more layers than the narrow scope he had allowed himself. Smoothing aside wayward hair from the high brow, the faint etchings from laughter and skin folding as deep thoughts often furrowed the flesh, the elf's breadth of humour and thought wrote itself across his features.

Slim laugh lines around the mouth, so quick to rouse to laughter, even faster to smiles, showing a full set of teeth, with one canine slightly offset and crooked. It was a tiny 'imperfection' but when considering how many they came across who were missing this or that bit, the overall neat ivory glinting was startling. Especially with how many knocks to the head and face he had seen the Crow take. The bottom lip had an off-center scar, one that would open if someone struck him there, and the one time it had happened accidentally during a practice bout with Sten, Ferox had heard a snarl. It was rare to hear any noise of anger, or to see the Antivan's posture change towards it, and for a moment he had thought he would have to drag Zevran from the match, because he had begun to blur, moving faster than Sten could track. He had been close to signalling a paralyze from Morrigan, but an odd kick delivered had sent the Qun'ari staggering and the assassin had spit a spray of blood on the ground before stalking away. Later that same day when Alistair had gone against him, Ferox noted how his fellow Warden had bashed his shield in Zevran's face - an action Ferox had disapproved of, but saw what Alistair was trying to do. It was an obvious trigger for anger, as for the second time the assassin, didn't lose control of himself, but had definitely lost some sense of whether it was a practice bout or an actual fight.

Leaning in, he pressed his lips to that spot that could have come from age and sun, but he suspected was truly from being hit in the mouth regularly for whatever cruel reason. Against his lips there was a questioning mumble that he quieted, kissing a temple quickly. It made him curious and wish to ask, but frequently when Ferox asked questions, the answers he received were expansive, containing good and bad things, and it was not something that could be undone or changed.

In their nest of furs and blankets the past wasn't a matter of import other than how it affected the present. Tracing the almost smoothed out rays that framed dark metallic amber-gold eyes with a thumb, he wondered how much of them were born from squinting weather, crinkling expression and wrinkling age. What ratio of those things caused the echo of a sun's rays with the glinting orbs as twin suns gazing out on the world? And the tattoos running from temple to the corner of mouth - they were different from the ones on the bronze form. Faded and clay rich brown compared to the inky soot everywhere else.

Mapping everything out once more, his gaze settled on the swoop of an ear before travelling again, stopping when he realized that he was being watched.

"Such an intent expression, _amora,_" eyes completely clear and utterly awake, often it seemed there was no break between 'asleep' and 'aware' as there was for himself. "What are you thinking to ponder so much, hmn?"

Caught by the sudden light and left unguarded, Ferox couldn't help the smile, "Good morning." A brief wish was made that things could go on like this forever, granted somewhere where he could play in the soil, not too hot for him, not to cold for Zevran, a comfortable mattress, a few animals, a bit of water, a library...or just a barn with a few scratchy blankets. It didn't matter, it really didn't matter, but he would prefer the additional bonuses of weather, bed, and other little niceties. "Just enjoying the moment and thinking that an orchard would be nice."

"An orchard? I do not think I can manage an orchard." Brow rising as lips quirked, "Hmn... If your teyrnir does not have orchards, something could be arranged. Might a small plantation be good enough?"

"Apples and pears, the usual...but where would you place this plantation?"

His lover snorted faintly, "Place it? It is not mobile, unless you know of some magic that could uproot four-hundred acres of land and a good portion of buildings. Sorghum, sugar, spices, with several acres devoted to fresh vegetables and legumes... The atrium and as many rooms as have sunlight have small fruit trees. About ten acres are devoted to fruit trees as our preserves are something we take great pride in - only the best comes from my plantation. Also I do not think my slaves would be all that pleased with Ferelden weather. The same goes for the crops. However we just have to kill my co-owner, unless for some reason we could convince Taliesin to throw in with us... However, that is quite unlikely." Zevran shrugged, "It is not much, nothing more than a gentleman's plantation, but we got a good price on it, and it is mostly mine. Taliesin had little interest in it, Rinna just liked playing the role of genteel lady. I liked the numbers and puzzle of managing it... But the loft and townhouse in the tannery district is entirely mine."

And that was what he got for not thinking, for saying the first thing that popped into his head. Kicking himself for what he was about to ask, he did it anyway, "And what did Taliesin do on this farm?"

"Sat around bored in the library. Practiced his fighting skills, and wondered why we did not buy the house by the river. Or a cafe or tavern or a brothel," arms slid around Ferox. "But he has always been the impatient sort. He prefers cities to 'mucking in mud like pigs'. Odd considering the fact that he was purchased from a poor family of farmers. Or perhaps not so odd."

"So why go in on a venture he did not like?"

Zevran's head rolled to the side as he thought, "Hmn...probably because he was outvoted. Possibly because I came into the land as part of a job, but had little collateral to staff it and cause it to be productive. Maybe because it was a way to pretend we were free? That we could retire from the Guild and live out our last years there, no matter that even if there was a possibility for retirement, that by that point one or all of us would be dead." Sighing, "Though I have known him since I was nine and he eleven, I cannot claim I know the inside of his mind. Or find a logical reason as to why he wished to frame Rinna and convince me that she had betrayed not just the Guild but us."

"Only one thing jumps in my head, but I know nothing of the situation."

A shoulder shifted under Ferox's side, the arm drawing him closer. "He is not a greedy man, so it was not that. The three of us have shared...had shared...virtually everything since before we left the training barracks. A bed, many years of our lives, food, weapons, armor, money, property, the occasional job..."

Plenty of things to say, plenty more to ask. People changed. Was Howe always a monster who killed his friends, killed the Teryn he had sworn loyalty to? How many times had he played with Thomas, Delilah, and watched his brother with Nathaniel as the dark-haired eldest Howe sought praise for his advancing weapons' skills? The families were friends and had been for generations. Zevran indicated that there had been a change in Loghain. Was that Rendon's influence there or the weight of duty and responsibility or loneliness and guilt? Regardless of the reasons, people change, but Zevran knew this and it did not bear saying about one he may have once called friend.

Zevran ran a hand through his hair, making it settle, "The situation I suppose was that we had been...a unit. The three of us. Not all that uncommon, hmn? Particularly amongst Crows, however the relationship dynamic usually changes frequently. Few people can tolerate or trust those in our line of work for so many years. But...normally when things come to an end there is not one dead on the floor, another left to seek death, and one left behind with all the cards..." His expression turned pensive, "Yet he did not allow me escape from Antiva or this life, when I attempted it. It took me a year to bide my time until he was off on a job, leaving me unattended to take the stupidest one I could find. And now I will have to kill him as he seeks to hunt us and do harm."

There was too much death, retribution, and restitution on this path and the branches that were acceptable to take, to turn away from where it all led, were few and far between. Another wish, this time for better choices was made or failing that, a new path. Seeking the death of others, ones well known or looked up to, this was impossible to think of before the night Howe and Duncan started this journey. If everything had gone as planned and his father and Rendon left the next morning and Duncan had taken Rory for the Grey Wardens, how would things be different...he still would have been the one left behind. Shaking the thought, Ferox returned to the actual road in front of them. Rinna and Rory, both loved and both dead at the hand of another who was familiar, whether by that person's own doing or crueler still, by the hand of who they loved. Either way, it made for cautiousness when finding care for another.

A heavy sigh escaped him. "When...if it comes, I will be there and abide by your wishes in this matter."

"No, he will have to die, _amora._ Unlike myself, he has never been flexible. Any chance given to him for anything _will_be taken - but only to deliver the end of a contract and punish me for leaving him behind," as he tucked his face into the side of Ferox's neck. "It is nice to say that he should be given a choice, yet I know it is only lying to myself. Hmn, one thing that might be a boon though - perhaps he brought my armor, at first thinking that I was merely in the middle of the job and having a slow go of completing the contract? If so, then we most certainly will have to look for it after he is dealt with." But there was a sad chuckle, more of a sob without tears, "Thirty years thrown away for whatever reason that I cannot comprehend."

An endearment Ferox had yet to utter echoed in his mind as he held Zevran. Other than his offer, a promise for all purposes, to be there and to support him, Ferox had nothing else to give except for arms to hold his elf, to reassure, to make certain that he slept, was fed, happy and cared for. This situation, like so many other things on their path, was broken and most likely irreparable. Each of them on this journey had their own tale and their own sadness which drove them forward, yes, even Sten in the Fade seemed to miss his former companions, their predictability if nothing else.

Ferox had started the conversation by asking a question, something that by now he should know better than to do. Time to consider, to puzzle over should have been taken to at least avoid the traps and prevent the dark shadow that had come over the face of his sun. It wasn't the first question, or even the second, or the third that had been foolish, but the fourth that had been hidden in a statement. For a time, he breathed in the familiar scent of light wondering what went into it, as he could not separate what it was made of, could only see the whole.

Slowly for him, but far quicker than most, Zevran threw off the quiet melancholy. "Ah, but that is a problem for another day." A cleared throat and a strong squeeze was followed by a kiss. "There is another small plantation, last I heard, owned by a merchant who is never there and sells little from his crops on his routes, he might be convinced to part with it, or some of it, to plant your broad orchards. The master bedroom has frostrocks to help keep it cool, much like the keepboxes do for those with the coin to purchase them. You would not melt with the heat, hmn? We could run away from your teyrnir, no more stupid politics, hmn? Just the Guild, but when stroked the right way they go quiescent."

"That is a nice thought, which would be made possible when Fergus miraculously is found and returns to his duties or I am properly relieved of my responsibility. However, a thought occurs to me, if I were kept cool, you might have to keep a salt lick around...since you seem to enjoy tasting salty skin after physical activity."

It wasn't as mirthful as usual but it was edging towards it, "Hmn, you seem to work up a sweat even in the cold if properly encouraged." Lips parted, sucking at the juncture of Ferox's neck and shoulder, the sensation of tongue licking the gathered flesh moist, before he was released, a pleased hum thrumming. "Hmn, yes, even still."

"Even still?" Rumbling, "Is that a complaint, I hear?"

"Oh, no, no, no ser, it most certainly is not," said fervently, the press of a nose and deep inhale lending veracity to the statement. "It is quite far from a complaint, _amante._"

"Hrm, a new word, but I think I know it as that one is very similar to the Orlesian, amant."

"Hmn, quite true," lips found his brushing over them quickly. "I could use another one, hmn? _Querido._No less true, but perhaps it will stump you."

Considering, pulling words from memory, "The beginning sounds a little like 'what', 'why', and almost 'who', all of which would be a very strange name."

"Not so strange, as 'what', 'why' and 'who' are all the same, only modified by additional words. '_Por que_' - what _for_. Hmn? It is your language that has all these odds and ends, while mine believes that anything is a 'what'," teasing. "But I see I have stumped you, very good."

Rumbling began again, "And you appear to be very pleased with yourself." Rolling Zevran to his back, Ferox followed, hovering over him, pressing kisses to the elf's cheekbone heading towards an ear. "What exactly must I do to hear this new word's meaning?" voice soft while nosing the pointed tip.

Going 'cagey' even as the ear twitched, "Oh I do not know if I could be convinced..."

"Well I suppose I could just begin another day, if there is no hope for it." Sighing, "I would hate to have you tell me a secret you wish to keep." Despite sounding like he was giving up, Ferox ran his tongue up and around the cartilage, catching in the tip for a moment. When it curled, something that still intrigued, he sucked and applied a gentle press of teeth.

The purr began almost immediately, "Mmn, perhaps I might change that to it is possible that I might be convinced..." A busy hand slid its way down Ferox's back, "That is if you are of a mind to interrogate me, yes?"

A bit of a muted laugh, before releasing the ear. "Speaking of which, wasn't it you who offered to warm my bed?"

"Oh I believe I warm it for you quite admirably, particularly after a good workout," legs shifted to wrap around him, the kneading of fingers at hips strong and sure. "Particularly as you wind up requiring to toss a few of the blankets off for an hour or two. And let us not forget the other night, hmn? All of them shoved to the floor...just from a _massage,_" said with a wicked gleam in amber eyes.

"And so you do, I withdraw the question." Settling back into the path, he kissed Zevran, renewing the warmth and light. Familiar rituals and routine a touchstone, Ferox found the same location between the shoulder and neck that the scent driven elf seemed to favor. First kissing, then licking, and then nipping. Not finding any change in scent that his faculties could determine beyond that Zevran always smelled good, Ferox tried to bury himself in it anyway. "What smells good at this spot when you do this to me?"

Slow rolling of hips as the assassin copied the motion, taking another deep drag against Ferox's neck, "Hmn, you smell like a man and like yourself. Whiskey and juniper berries and crisp pine and salt and myself."

"Sunlight. Although how that has scent I don't know...heat perhaps? Leather when you have been in your armour and something sweet that always makes me think of your honey and beeswax poultice."

"Mmn, sandalwood and amber, I brought a bag of chips that had been soaked in the oil - it is in my pack," long strokes followed one after the other languidly.

Another inhale as he settled against Zevran, trying to find individual scents, "Isn't amber...no it was a tree sap first. Wouldn't that smell more like pine trees than something sweet? Although, I admit that I can't say that I've run around smelling different rocks or rock-like objects."

Chuckling, "Different saps produce different forms of amber, when it is not entirely solid, it is a thick gum used in anything that can bear a scent. Pine sap amber is not particularly common or desired in Antiva - too bitter."

"Sugar maples for syrups, I suppose...although others can be used, just not as plentiful or sweet."

"Maple is for _eating_, not smelling, _amante_," Zevran snorted.

Between nips along a collar bone, "Still," nip followed by another, "sap." Tongue rolling in the hollow of Zevran's throat, mumbling, "I do like right here though, it smells and tastes good." Treating the other side to the same, mumbling and interspersing the words with action, "'Sides," nip, "when you," nip, "have'a," nip, "cold," nip, "ya can't," nip, "taste either."

"Speak for yourself, _querido,_half my ability to smell things comes from taste," even as the purring increased it stuttered for a snort. "Even with a stuffed nose things still have a great deal of taste."

Ferox growled, the Crow always had an answer for everything. Either he was very well educated or he was specifically designed to win every argument with anyone...both answers being the most likely. And right now, he was taunting and withholding 'vital' information. Watching where the light bites reddened, he filled in any missing spaces before returning to the hollow of the throat. Gentler up the throat, Ferox returned to the sunlight kisses, in spite of the purring approval, he sought additional reassurance that he was not presuming on what was given freely. He had not previously, intentionally laid a mark on Zevran and wanted to be certain that he was not stepping over a boundary.

But the contented and very interested hum, followed by, "Oh? Now that is nice..." was all he needed, but first the assassin drew him up for another of those sunbright kisses.

Restored, Ferox returned to Zevran's chest to swirl a tongue over dark nipples. Again, applying light biting nips, he rolled the peaked bud between his teeth, and tugged on golden hoops. Growling the entire time, he enjoyed the quiet noises of encouragement and the squeeze of legs against him. First one nipple then the other, then a line of biting kisses were laid over a rib to the elf's breastbone as if Ferox were to begin the cycle again with the first, but upon reaching the midpoint, returned his attention to the one he just left. Repeating the actions several times, just because he could and to familiarize himself with these new dance steps. Again a trail of reddened bites on another rib following it to the breastbone and pausing as if making a decision, Ferox proceeded to the other matching rib before turning his growling attention back to the first dark sepia nipple. The same, biting, rolling and tugging gaining him the same rewards of a hitch in breathing, another squeeze of strong legs and the constant hums and purrs. Another rib was chosen to be the bitten trail back to the breastbone.

Experiencing another moment of near indecision and uncertainty, there was an additional pause. The landscape was still recognizable, the path close to others previous climbed. A breath to soak in the oak brown skin with its faint sheen, the scent of sun and sweet to steady him, limber fingers ran through his dark hair, loosened in the night by those same questing digits. Collected, Ferox returned again to his task. Nipping bites laid over Zevran's stomach, around the belly button in a circular pattern, every bit of skin was reddened, revisiting some for a second marking. Thorough, he did not overlook anything, while his growling rumble continued, pleased with his work.

Too warm in the layering of blankets and furs, Ferox reached up to pull off a blanket and a pelt before continuing. Morning roughened cheeks were rubbed over the red bites, further irritating the skin and Zevran chuckled while arching into the attentions. He was having fun, they both were, which brought another upwelling of heat through him. Wanting more, rubbing the same scruff against the length which he had been ignoring, the growling reduced to a rumble.

"I'm waiting, Zevran," as his abrasive whiskers brushed against the elf's alert morning erection.

"You are, are you? I have no buckets of maple sap for you to make things from," fingers tightened against Ferox's skull keeping him still long enough so that Zevran could sigh as he rubbed hardness against the scruff of chin. "So I am afraid that wait might be quite long, hmn?"

"That is too bad, I was beginning to think of you as breakfast and dessert. A bit of sweetening on top would be welcome. What can you offer me instead? I hear you are an excellent haggler."

The elf was far too collected, relaxing pleasantly under the attentions, "Hmn, how about two answers to two questions?"

Ferox gave a rumbled consideration, "Better, at least there is some forward progress on your part, my delicious assassin."

However instead of following up with unanswered questions, of which there were many, with thumb and fingers rolling at the base of Zevran's flexing member, Ferox began to lick and taste, tongue rolling around the sensitive head. The rumbled note of happiness continued - from both of them. Taking his time, fingers played with the spheres and rods placed under the silken skin, still fascinated with these enhancements and yet at the same time wondering why anyone would do such a thing. Pressing his lips to the base, teasing at the skin and tasting there then choosing another spot, and then another, tongue catching on a sphere, manipulating it to feel how it slid beneath skin and over his lips. Zevran's prick tasted as good as it felt, something about it distracting him for a moment, only wanting to spend all day there, but that wouldn't get him the answer he wanted.

Having time to consider the offer, Ferox paused for a moment to rub his stubbled cheeks against soft skin again, "Four questions with at least 2 follow up questions each."

Hoping to cause at least some hitch in thinking, if not in breathing, he returned to his task. He didn't know what four questions he would choose, since there were only two currently on his mind, but it never hurt to ask for more, as he could always save them up for later. To further encourage that hitch when he noted that Zevran was obviously thinking it over, Ferox moved to the flared crown, sucking on it while massaging just behind the heavy sack, gaining the looked for reaction.

An audible swallow came from the elf as Ferox dragged his mouth free and slid it along the side, "Two questions and three follow-ups, _amora_."

With a harrumph, a noise not quite unlike one Horse would make when flopping in front of the fire, Ferox leaned over the edge of the mattress to find the jar of salve, which had been set on the floor the night before. Thankfully Zevran slept on the fire side of the bed, still it was going to be...very refreshing. Coming back up, with the right one, and insuring that he hadn't uncovered either of them, he cracked the container open and gathered some of the cold lotion. "Three and three."

"Hmn, two questions, three follow-ups is my final offer, _querid-_" Zevran halted, hissing as Ferox stroked around his opening with the frigid cream, hips jerking.

Circling lightly, pressing only enough to make the rings cave inwards partially and quickly pulling his fingertips back to continue teasing lightly, "Three and three."

"Three and no follow-ups," a frustrated noise almost escaped the assassin's throat, but that catch was obvious - likely due to the fact that as soon as Zevran's mouth opened, so did Ferox's to run his tongue along the hoop in the tip, making the gold slide and shift while he pushed a finger in, stroking before pulling it out and his mouth away.

Doing his best to _not_snicker, Ferox gathered a little more, not that it was needed, but just for the coolness, and sank two fingers in with a twist of his wrist. Overhead Zevran moaned, hips arching, and Ferox returned to what he had been doing - at least for a few moments. Withdrawing his slickened and now much warmer fingers and his mouth, until his lips were resting just on the tip of Zevran's cock, fingers circling light enough that it likely tickled, he had to bite the inside of his cheek at the very put out and frustrated whine.

Mumbling against the underside of the flared end, "Three and three." Ferox couldn't do without the followup questions. He would have almost been willing to go down to two initial questions, but it was always good to have a backup plan, to hold one question in reserve, one never knew when it would be needed. Hunched in the blankets, he had withheld most of the second helping of the salve, warming it in his other hand. Since they..._he_was veering slightly from the usual path, why not a little more? Tugging with teeth, just enough to hold the hoop, Ferox repeated, "Three and three."

Zevran's hips twitched, trying to follow the stroking and his mouth, "Mmmn...three and one."

It was progress, but Zevran's answers always led to more questions. Searching for the firm knot in the extreme warmth and tightness, Ferox growled with a hint of a snarl, "Three and three."

"Mmph...three and -" words were cut off by a nearly plaintive whimper when Ferox once more pulled back. "Fine - yes, yes - three and three - just...!"

Continuing with that distraction, eyes closed at how smooth muscles milked and clung to his broad fingers, Ferox worked the remainder of the second dollop where it was needed, the callus of his palm grasping the familiar weight. Carefully scooting up the elf's body, mouth dragging over, checking and adding to the nearly faded marks from his teeth, he gingerly opened the clinging warmth, reminding himself that it was Zevran, and that any change to the dance steps would be mirrored and accepted. Hands were in his hair, shoulders hunching so that he could kiss Ferox, and the taste of the Crow made him growl, blasting away the need to reassure himself. Taking himself in hand, guiding towards that which, for whatever reason, neither had asked for. Legs tightened, hips shifted at the brush of his member against the opening, and Zevran's arm slid down his back, embracing him with a hungry groan.

Bracing himself to go slow, to not risk harm, to take every scrap of self-control and not go mad from the clenching and pulling Ferox expected, he blotted everything out that he could, just focusing on pushing in gradually. There was no resistance, only warmth parting and sucking him in, but Zevran's breathing had gone long and slow, body relaxing to allow his intrusion, a hand running up and down his spine soothingly, giving him time when he had to pause for air. Panting by the time his cock was firmly ensconced, Ferox shuddered, needing to bury his face in Zevran's shoulder. Fingers against his scalp massaged slowly, the entirety of his lover's body embracing him, somehow even the cheek pressed to the side of his face was hugging him. Collecting his scattered nerves, Ferox blindly searched for the taste of sunshine. Mouth opened to allow his tongue to plumb it, to lick behind teeth and beneath tongue, against the inside of a cheek and the roof of mouth, familiar and familiarly-different.

Parting from those broad, whisker-free lips, a shift that almost made him forget as it brought him close enough to rest his forehead against the Crow's, Ferox made his eyes open. Gold eyes met his, not clear and palest blue. A sharp pain - Ferox wasn't certain suddenly if they had been grey or blue. It was too far away. Brown, such a golden hue of it, skin covered head to toe with tattoos, darkening and creating striking differences - not pale, freckled and covered with a broad swath of thick, curly, ginger-red hair. There was no frantic, fumbling and desperate grasping and pulling as there had been with Rory, but the expert and steady touch, holding him secure.

Zevran's voice was low, as the twin pools so close to his own held him, the pupils dark black, shrinking and widening slowly, the continual slow massage along the seam the ogre's fist had left in his skull one of the best differences that always kept him anchored, "Ferox, _amora_, you do not have to do this if you do not wish to."

"No." A gasp of air. "I mean, I want to...I want this." A blink of moisture and a deep shaking breath, "I forgot something and didn't know it was gone and -" the worst thing about it, "- I can't get it back."

The assassin didn't tell him it was alright or say he was sorry, or that he understood or knew, instead he just squeezed Ferox tighter in his arms. "I am yours, _querido._ I am here for you, _amora._"

Another breath, steadier, "I'm glad you are here, have been here...don't want to think what would happen if you weren't."

"Then do not, there is no need to, other than to torture and break the mind," husky and dripping the words as they fell from those lips.

Nodding, the worry that he would soon forget everything that was important was relinquished. With another searching kiss, Ferox fell back into the sunlight, trying to remember where he was on this journey, where the path was, and above all where he had been headed. The long slow breaths, steady, warming, relaxing and soothing, gradually rebuilt the heat, each rise and fall of pressed together chests vying subtly for space somehow brought him deeper - or at least reawakened the flagging desire from the temporary tumult. Kisses were shared and given, any area that could be reached was lavished gently until Ferox's need was once more stoked.

Wrapping his arms around Zevran, arms hooking under shoulders so that he could hold the face and drag fingertips through the clingingly soft blond strands, Ferox found the compulsion to move become overpowering. With long strokes within the silken heat, unable to look away from the elf's face or the eyes that watched him with such quiet intensity, the hand that slid between them adjusting and lining up the thickness of his manhood so that it was trapped between their stomachs, was a fascinating vision. Legs guided Ferox's hips to tilt, meeting him half-way with each rocking until the colour rose in the Antivan's face, lids fluttering shut as he bared his throat. Licking dry lips, following that beckoning that was a sigh, body swallowed up and taken in, complimented and moving onwards, he ran his tongue over the throbbing vein, heard the groan, felt the tightening of every muscle, and his own breathing slowed somehow... Even as his heart pounded, the lunges were smooth and deep, focusing on every small reaction, powerless to look away from the flickering dance in amber eyes that drifted open after each kiss. The pace didn't change, it couldn't, even if Ferox had been foolish enough to wish it to, because he was falling into every concentrated ray of summer evening sunbeams hanging in golden falls from a window, the dancing motes floating in the air. It was the sighs, the looks, the touches, the lips moving against his or his cheek, a soundless litany, some spell spoken without noise, just breath. A pronounced shudder rippled through the lean frame holding him, shoulders lifted from the stuffed ticking and fur mattress, heat spilling between Zevran and Ferox as the assassin climaxed, lending its sticky slickness to the stroke of their abdomens against each other. Still Ferox continued to slide in and out of the gentle prison, caged within limbs that were neither cage nor prison.

He could feel a single drop of sweat running down his spine, wet and warm, the blankets tangling and sticking to them as impossible heat was held trapped in the space they filled. The pressure built low, somewhere deep inside him, beyond the root of his cock that was being thrust in as Zevran's hips circled beneath him, both of their breathing deepening to a faster pace, unable to stop, not that Ferox could ever think of stopping, wanting only to climb further with his lover, secure in that embrace. His pulse was pounding, throbbing and twitching in rock hard tissue, so that he was incredibly aware of the way he swelled, filling up Zevran's tight hole as it began to clench around him, tighter and tighter and tighter, until he wasn't sure if it was comfortable or not, but the litany that was soundless became audible. Ferox's name and a string of words he couldn't even identify beyond those already used and familiar. He might have said something himself, but Ferox didn't know - his mouth was too busy pressing against any patch of skin he could reach, licking a thrumming windpipe, sucking a flexible ear, nipping at a chin. Suddenly he was crushed, emptied and flooding arrhythmical clenching sheath, another hot spilling between bellies, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl within Zevran's being, an effort he struggled to do anyway, pushing deeper, deep as he could go, locked in paroxysms. Blazing hot semen pulsed repeatedly and even as his brain trembled with the pleasure, he could feel his testicles draining with each spurt until there was nothing left.

Weak boned, Ferox slumped against Zevran, knowing he should probably move to the side, to not crush, but he couldn't bear to move away, even a by a fraction. "Tell me."

"Beloved," face tucking into Ferox's shoulder, body still shaking, even down to the feet pressed at the backs of Ferox's knees, and the hands clutching at his head and back. "'_Querido_' means 'beloved'."

Too tired to lift his head, Ferox rolled slightly to kiss whatever was under his cheek. "I like that one...best."

A few loose ends tied up bought more time, brought more vital coin. Even though Orzammar made Ferox tense, it was nothing like the first time. And he was supremely glad he had insisted on going with Zevran, bringing Horse and Lelianna as well. Loghain's diplomat had been far better protected than Ferox was expecting, and the fight was nasty, if brief. No matter that his assassin groused and griped that if it had been just him there would have been no problem, but the Crow's 'strategy' would have taken time. And not a few acts that Ferox wasn't very approving of. Dagna was the easier matter, dealt with quickly and even tagging along to make any repairs to armour incurred during the quick march to Redcliffe. It took a little sweet-talking, but the young dwarva was convinced to not set off from Redcliffe to Kinloch on her own, and instead waited to be dropped off.

Eamon had an irritating tendency to talk down to Ferox, one he usually ignored but when Zevran had probed for further details of Ferelden hierarchy, it had come out. Technically, unless Fergus was ever found alive, improbable as that was, Eamon was _Ferox's vassal_rather than superior, years in the Landsmeet notwithstanding. Zevran had chuckled and told him that the old man should enjoy it while it lasted, because it wouldn't be long because he was sure Ferox would replace the old bastard with Teagan who actually had a functioning brain at his disposal. At that moment, he had never wanted to kiss the assassin so badly.

The not so Slim Couldry was spoken to with a few coins exchanged almost as soon as they reached Denerim, while Leliana, Wynne and Alistair went to the Chantry to see what else needed doing or to report matters dealt with. A quick pitstop at several other places yielded small purses filled with coin, which Ferox split with Zevran who secreted much of it away about his person. There was no chance of anyone stealing it from the Crow, while Ferox took the half he carried and buried it in his pack. The Gnawed Noble was crowded as usual, few signs of any banns or arls except those who were already close to Denerim for other reasons. Into a back room Zevran disappeared, then came out to the hall, bidding him to follow for another meeting with 'that old buzzard' as his Crow called Ignacio.

The face to face with Loghain was a let down, a stab in his gut. Zevran had been correct - the great man wasn't anymore. The shadow he had barely been aware enough to note back at Ostagar had consumed and come to full force over the general. Howe at his shoulder hadn't even bothered looking at him, as though if he didn't look, then Ferox wouldn't be there. When he and Zevran returned to their room, Ferox had spent hours heaving then stormed off to spar, needing to beat at targets. A vain hope that if he demolished the wooden pells then he could also demolish the betrayal and pain. His lover was quiet as he had once been, calming and present. Days of meetings in Eamon's office and library ground on until Ferox was nearly numb once again but for the strong arms and hands that would hold him close, the full mouth that would kiss him, struggling to bring him back to the light.

In desperation Ferox went on a job with Zevran and Horse, Wynne brooking no argument and insisting on coming along as well. More history presented itself. Dark haired, swarthy and strong featured, almost jovial, an older human revealed himself, and Zevran had tensed beside Ferox. Taliesin sought to tempt his lover away, but Zevran had only replied, sad and friendly at once that he should have stayed in Antiva. The _shemlen_Crow was the last to fall, an error that even Ferox could see from afar left him open, and Zevran plunged his dagger deep beneath armour. It was almost an embrace as the two went to their knees, sinking majestically as though time had slowed. For a terrifying moment he thought the other would stab Zevran as arms began to move, blades still in hand, but they dropped to the ground. Something was said, unheard even as Ferox rushed forward, inside his mind screaming and roaring like a wild beast. With brusque and detached efficiency Zevran had stripped everything of value from his fellow as though the corpse was of any common bandit. In spite of it, or because of his own need, they pushed on that afternoon, setting the Crow trap behind them as though nothing had happened. But by evening Zevran's withdrawal hadn't abated, having something to do with Taliesen's death and Ferox refusing to accept payment for something that shouldn't be paid for.

Requests to come to bed were met with growls, the rare show of anger enough to make Ferox wince. Especially since he was also struggling, but managing anyway - there wasn't any choice. But Horse paced from Ferox's side to the Crow's and back that night, even though they were in separate ends of the estate, as though undecided as to who needed him the most.

How Ferox lasted for three days in that fashion was one of life's mysteries, but he finally was driven to corner the assassin. Dangerous no matter who one was, deadly for most. No matter what though, laying awake, having to keep the fireplace lit and several candles as well - darkness was no longer his friend, something that had to be banished if his sun were not in residence - he could not shake the memory of how the Crow had withstood his anger and his own snarls. How, even when Zevran thought Ferox hated and despised him, he still sought him out. How he struggled to remain steady and supportive and help cope with the weight of grief and personal loss and tragedy. At the very least there was a debt there that had to be repaid.

"Horse, take me to him, will you old friend?" rubbing the large head then scritching firmly behind an ear, he knew that the mabari was the only one with a hope of finding an assassin who didn't wish to be found.

But the Crow was found with surprising ease, in the library, books before him, piles of them. The light of a single candle pushed back at the night's darkness and as he watched, pages were devoured at a phenomenal rate, lips moving along nearly too fast to be real. Ferox had enough sardonic humour left to find that yes, the assassin had been built to be supremely educated. It was no wonder he had such an easy time 'winning' arguments.

Another page was turned, "No sense standing there, _amora._You might wish to take a seat, instead of outlining yourself in a doorway, hmn?"

"You're different," it wasn't what he had wanted to say and Ferox was sure it came out accusing, as in his breast his heart burned with encroaching frostbite. One of those bartered questions that had been gained was finally asked. "What changed?"

"Sit down, will you? I am not going to attack you, _querido,_" it was terse and tired, and his lover looked to have aged a decade.

Doing as he was bid, Ferox waited.

"The Crows discourage sentiment, at least until we are old enough that we have been indoctrinated to a point where the House comes first in all things. If they did not allow us some semblance of normalcy, the very expensive tools that we are would break far too soon to turn the Guild a profit," the eyes continued to flow over the words in the book, pages turned. "Whores sell the semblance of love, but are not incapable of it. And Crows are not unlike whores, selling our bodies and our semblances for whatever job is available. Any thought that we have that whatever relationships we form with each other or anyone else might be meaningful, we are told is nothing but delusions. A lie. Born of a whore, a slave, raised by more whores and then by murderers, forged into what I am... Rinna, Taliesin and I never paid attention to what we had. Or at least I did not. To look at it was to put it at risk... He let me kill him. No pleading. No begging. No gasped out devotions."

Fingers spread across the page, trembling slightly as they pressed down on the book. "It was in everything they did. Rinna was the only one strong enough to say it. Taliesin was the only one strong enough to show it. 'And then there was one'. And I am too weak to say or know or show what I felt. What room is there in me for _love_?" spitting the last word out as though it were a curse. "Do I even know what it is? How can I call you 'my beloved', 'my love' or 'my heart' when I do not know what these things are, or if I even have one in my breast beyond a beating muscle that pumps blood through my veins? How can that be even remotely acceptable to you? I am nothing more than a whore and a murderer either incapable or unworthy of such sentiment."

If one said, another showed, what was left? To give or receive. And Zevran gave his love freely and without thought. He need not say or show, because the others always knew. While never asking for a single thing for himself, other than to be allowed to continue giving. It was why he couldn't get the assassin out of his tent...followed him everywhere closer than the hound, had even violated the trust built for the express purpose of lancing a wound that wasn't physical, and been willing to bear the brunt of Ferox's anger, just to _give_some chance of healing.

"You're far from incapable of sentiment. You give love. No need to say it, no need to put on a show, you just go and do it. Unasked. Sometimes unwanted. But never unneeded." Swinging a leg over the arm of the stuffed chair, he would rather not sleep there in the library than not sleep in one of the comfortable beds provided in the pressing darkness.

The heel of a palm rubbed at the bronze forehead, "Perhaps. But if I were so good at giving it, then there would have been no jealousy... Yet how could I not give more when she was pregnant with his child? Stupid _shem_was never as careful as I was...and she was tired of terminating the pregnancies..."

"Hrm. If he was not careful of others, ones supposedly cared for, it sounds like the fault was his." Plumping a pillow to wedge behind the small of his back, Ferox's head rested against the high sides meant to hold the heat from the nearby fireplace. "Not that I know anything of the situation or of them. I do know you however." A sigh. "Zevran, I have not slept, neither has Horse, and neither have you. In rejecting your proffered payment, I am not rejecting you. Both of us need you and not just for sleep or to open a box or two. I don't know what tomorrow will bring, but whatever Eamon or Slim or Ignacio have up their sleeves, will require that I not snarl or bite anyone and that you be at your best as well. At this rate, even your excellent skills would suffer. If you are determined to stay here, so will I, if merely to save a faithful hound another trip up the stairs, seeking to reconcile those he loves."

Amber eyes went to the large mabari who was sitting so he could watch them, tiny tufted eyebrows above beady eyes staring mournfully at each of them in turn, head on his paws. The book was slammed closed with a faint sound of disgust, "You are far too heavy to carry like a child in my current state, my friend. Very well, if just to save our backs, to the bed with you both."

Swinging feet back to the floor, and pulling an interesting book off the shelf, Ferox gesture at the piles, "In case you can't sleep, bring one or two, I would be happy to growl at Eamon, should he complain." A quirk of a lip turned into a grin, "Rather look forward to it actually."

In the dimness of the estate on their way up to their room, Ferox caught an arm around Zevran's waist to pull him closer. Quietly for his ears only, "How could one love someone such as yourself? I ask these same questions about myself. My loss is nothing in comparison, yet I freeze, locking everyone out, hating them. You on the other hand welcome those in who need assistance and are open to accepting it. Love is a gift, unearned and undeserved - any man who could not love what you give - one who could not love you - would be a fool." Shaking his head in the twilight, "I do not care for the trappings, the nationality, age, the label applied, man, elf, dwarf...male or female, the outside does not matter, never has. If you and Wynne, or better yet, you and Oghren switched minds, I'd learn to like magical bosoms or sensitive dwarven digestive tracts."

The assassin leaned his face into him, some of the tension flowing away. "It is good that no one knows such magics as I would be disappointed with either body and am rather attached to the one I currently possess as it grants me the ability to better give to you."

Attaining their room, Ferox puttered, checking his gear and laying out clean clothes, the fatigue creeping up quickly, as though knowing that soon he could sleep and it was seeking to pull him down before he was through. Horse was busy tugging at Zevran's socks even as the elf was trying to remove his tunic and got them free of brown feet as the tunic was removed. That was nipped from hands as well, then the large hound nabbed Ferox's own dirty tunic and made a nest beside the bed, scooting the laundry around with his nose, circling it several times before landing with a grunt, his little stub wagging when Zevran draped his dirty leggings over the mabari.

"You are as bad as Tigress - she used to steal my sweaty light armour to make a nest beneath the bed," snorting Zevran stretched out on the bed, hand fisted as he rested his head on it. Gaze flicking up to watch Ferox, "He should have been a rogue, hmn? Excellent at blackmail."

Pleased that everything was placed precisely, exactly where it should be if he were to wake in the night, dress in the dark, no thought would be required, Ferox had no fear that something would be missing. In a minute, two or three at absolute most, he could be out the door for whatever was needed. Every night this ritual was performed, every time something was removed it was put in its place. Once that was done and the candles blown out, the light from the banked fire plenty when the sun was there, he slid between the sheets reaching out to touch the light.

"If it was just me, then I would've figured out how to cope," Ferox pushed an arm beneath the pillow, curling under and around so that he could hook Zevran closer. "But if he wasn't sleeping and was going back and forth between us, well, you weren't sleeping either. Couldn't let that continue."

Zevran allowed himself to be tugged closer, but didn't lay his head down, remaining with his head propped in hand. "Ferox...I...still have the earring, if you would wish to still take it as a token of...my lasting affection for you."

Covering a yawn with a hand, "No payment, Zevran, we've been through this. The same has been given to the others. Accept the gift, the only thing you have to decide is what to do with it."

"You are being difficult, I did not say payment, I said 'token of my lasting affection,'" a bit of snap to the statement. "It is the first thing I had ever claimed for myself and to house it I began making my belt from other trophies and gewgaws. But that is too narrow for your waist."

Focusing, as the argument had changed from last time, no longer running over the same ground, "And its jingle is what warns that you are there before leaping off of me." Ferox settled into the mattress. "You are here, I do not need anything more, but I would not refuse a gift...a reminder for when you are not here."

A deep breath was taken, "Good." Zevran leaned over him, taking the Joining amulet that was around Ferox's neck to thread a hooped earring with a strange bit of stone dangling from it, into the loop that kept the silver chased vial on the leather thong. "Perhaps at some other time you might allow me to put it in your ear for all to see, but...that...that is up to you, _querido_. I am just proud that you would accept and wear my token, no matter how humble."

Reaching up to run a finger lightly around an ear, "I am glad you have returned and are pleased. When this is over, one way or another, remind me, as I do not think I would deny you this wish."

Zevran kept it together. Somehow. Every step away from Howe's estate was one more step away from Ferox. How he wound up barking orders and taking the lead was baffling. Horse and Wynne had looked at him as though he had the answers, while Erlina and the Royal Cunt wrung their hands. As soon as they got near a back alley, Zevran had grabbed Anora's arm, hauling her back into him and hissed that her ass best be worth it and that if she crossed him again, she would pray for death ten minutes in. Then he had shoved her forward, the pilfered guard's armour clanking as she stared at him horrified that someone would presume so much.

The longer they waited to make a plan to rescue Ferox from Fort Drakon, the longer he was in the hands of those who would do him harm. And the longer their enemies had to bulk up security. A quick stop to talk to Cesar, another to the flop that Taliesin had occupied, distantly noting that some of Zevran's clothes had been brought, a favoured knife and a pouch of coin, but no armour, he finished collecting what would be useful. Dosing Erlina would be useless, if she was what he thought she was, it would do no good. However a brief word with Morrigan yielded a dark smile on purple stained lips, their mutual love of concoctions having forged something of a friendship. Also their never making any bones or excuses over what they were, wearing their 'insults' proudly, left them as more than allies.

Keeping himself stealthed sitting in one of the few pools of shadow in Anora's room as she wrote at her desk, sipping the tea that had been brought to her, he waited. When a hand fluttered to the back of long neck, rubbing it as though overheated and sore, the countdown began. It wouldn't take long and of course the Queen had no resistance to drugs, poisons possibly - but drugs...no. Mentally tripping the switch that let his body do what it had to, no matter how distasteful, Zevran waited a few moments more as the _shemlen_rubbed her thighs together impatiently. Her back was to him and she was too distracted to note someone locking the door, or coming up on silent feet, until he lay a hand on her shoulder, rubbing his thumb over the bit of neck that showed.

Startled, offended and angry blue eyes snapped to look up at him, "What are you -"

Conversationally, the anger and dread in his veins lent their weight to his voice, "How long has it been, Anora? Hmn? How long since a man has bothered to touch you?"

"Get out, elf," it was snapped at him. "I don't need the service of a knife-eared, foreign whore."

"Ah, that is right, you already have your own - ah, but where is she?" watching as Anora straightened to try and look around, face flushed and he could smell the arousal that was born from chemicals throbbing at her grey matter as it gathered wetly at her crotch. "But she could not give you what your body is screaming for, no?"

"Leave," it was a shuddered order, but ignored.

Instead Zevran shifted closer, knee hitching further on the desk, his own 'arousal' displayed by the straining of cloth. "You have something I want." Bending down to run the tip of his nose along the side of her jaw, murmuring huskily, "And I have something you quite clearly want very badly." Measuring constantly and weighing action and reaction, he nipped at a jewel dangling lobe, teeth sinking in just enough to scrape, "You see, being a Crow as I am, I can decide how much of a...gentleman...I will or will not be. Discretion is a lovely thing, is it not?" Anora shuddered again, sweat beginning to form a sheen on her face, glimmering as lips were licked, hands clutching at her skirts, all of these things were noted and assessed. "Thus far I choose gentleman, as you might be somewhat useful, and flaying you alive might limit that. At least at this moment, hmn? I do not like to take options off of a table until necessary..."

As he tilted her head to the side with his thumb, hand resting lightly on her throat, inhaling before biting at the pale skin, the Ferelden Queen fought for words, "What - what do you want?"

"Fort Drakon, everything you know about it," moving to whisper in her ear. "You are the Queen, you and a handful of others at most must know every schematic. You are well-known for such...attention..." with a practiced flick of fingers, stays that kept Anora's upper-bodice fastened tightly, were released, and he slid a hand in to cup and squeeze at the mound of flesh there, "to details. Now, which interrogation would you prefer? Gentleman?" pressing his mouth to the wet and hungry one that immediately opened to him. Pulling back, he sank teeth deep into the flesh of her lip, making her cry out, jerking, but his hold on her was firm, the taste of blood welling up as he muttered around the trapped bit of flesh, "Or Crow?"

Even after he straightened, staring down at her upturned face, Anora still thrummed, the response being nothing she could fight. He did not enjoy the manner of coercion, but Zevran was what he was - a Crow. It was easy to go the route he chose, physically at least. Emotionally, it was nearly impossible. All he wanted was to march Anora to Fort Drakon, disembowel her and use her entrails as a noose for any who got in his way. But she was useful and still a monarch, one who for the moment remained necessary. No matter how distasteful the fact of using something for pleasure to subdue another was, he would do it. And he would make sure it was good - it would give her a taste of what his lover was going through that she had _purposefully_brought about.

"What do you want to know?" blue eyes locked on his groin hungrily.

Grinning without mirth, Zevran stood, yanking her to bend over the desk, gesturing at the paper and ink, "Start writing and I will start my work, hmn? Fair is fair."

Zevran tuned out the taste and smell and texture, only paying enough attention to make sure he was getting the results he wanted as he sat in her chair, hoisting her skirt up. The marvellous thing about the drug he had administered was how aroused it could leave someone - while refusing to let them plummet. Unless they had a great deal of practice with it of course. Crows with trouble performing for long periods of time would consume them for the purpose of working better for whatever job they were on and occasionally for recreation. Whores that were valuable and attractive but balky were dosed, as were belligerent consorts and spouses when needed. It wasn't a hard thing to find if one knew where to look and Taliesin had most of the components and reagents as if the composition was altered slightly, it could make a potent poison. Listening to the scrabble of quill interspersed with moaning and the frequent gasp, he thought it likely that the second purpose likely was what Taliesin had planned on using for, and on Zevran no less. Probably thought it would let him die with a smile on his face. Of course that was ignoring the fact that nearly a whole trunk of Zevran's clothes had been in evidence, as if he thought it were possible to bring him back to the fold like a wayward horse.

Withdrawing his cock from his trews and slamming home after checking over Anora's shoulder that good progress - if sloppily written - was made of drawing maps of Fort Drakon's interior and exterior, he rode her hard. Once he was satisfied that as much information as she had resting between her ears had been drawn up, he wrapped a hand around her throat, yanking her back into him, squeezing off her pleasured moans that were turning to noisy cries, fondling a breast as he growled in her ear. His body, after all, knew its work.

Groaning near her ear, "It is a pity that you might continue to be useful." The orgasm began and he held himself deep in her sheath, allowing his seed to spill, knowing the insult it would be to someone like her, "Otherwise I would enjoy killing you very much."

Shoving her to fall to the floor, tucking himself away, Zevran scooped up the papers, as Anora struggled to rise to try and grab for his hips. With his leg he pushed her away, staring down at her like a bug, the same way she looked at everyone she had seen in Eamon's estate, plotting her plots. It was tempting to finish the job, but he refrained. He could always use his fallback plan of torturing her before her father to gain Ferox's release.

A human and an elf would have been too obvious, but an elf in messenger's clothes arriving late in the evening was overlooked after quick questioning. It was nothing to slip into a storage area, one indicated on the map Anora had drawn. Accurately too, much to his dark amusement. The hilt of Finesse was comforting in his hand, her blade sliding into the kidney of a guard as he dragged him back to an alcove. From there he continued, silently picking off those in the front halls, working his way forwards. As soon as he got past the sentry watching the dungeon's entrance, he snuck around, planting a gas bomb near a fire so that it would rupture as the contents heated, killing those present, and dissipating by the time he had to leave.

Corpses in various stages of decomposition or even mummification hung throughout the dungeons. Pausing when one caught his eye for some reason, possibly due to the bone structure and size being so similar to Ferox's, his gaze slid over the coat of arms that matched those on Ferox's shield, emblazoned in ink on the redheaded corpse's pectoral. Frowning, he took a moment longer to inspect the body, the signs of prolonged torture heavily written into flesh. Testing the body with his dagger, noting how it sunk in with some leathery resistance, he felt that the young man was perhaps a month or two dead at most. Shaking his head at the waste, he continued onwards in search of his Warden.

Fighting without armour was familiar and comfortable. Decades of wearing little more than triple folded canvas under his clothes, or perhaps featherweight chain, or paper thin leather, allowed him to move with utter silence and inhuman speed. Like a dark ghost he blew through the bowels of the Fort, a swath of death left in his wake. When he found Ferox, his Warden was chained heavily, naked against bare stone. Bruises and lash marks were all over him, the beautiful dark head hanging with defeat. For that alone, Zevran wished to find Loghain and wipe his stain from Thedas, no matter how much Ferox looked up to the man.

Licking his lips, Zevran got the locks opened, and the eyes that swung up towards him were puffy and black and red, one completely swollen shut. "_Querido,_it is I, your Zevran."

Tongue slid along broken lips, "You're not supposed to be here. Maker, Zevran, leave, escape before they notice you..."

Weak and delusional obviously, Ferox tried to resist his manacles being undone. Zevran had already found Ferox's armour and gear, but for the moment, what was needed was one of the potent stamina draughts he had raided from the small hoard Taliesin had left. Uncorking it with his teeth he forced Ferox to drink it, wincing at how his lover flinched in his arms, whimpering.

As what little could be seen of the unclosed eye cleared, "Zevran...?"

"Shh, _amora_, take a moment to let it finish giving you some strength. Then we _must_leave," gingerly cradling him in his arms. Pleading with him quietly, the words slipped past his guard, "Ferox, I love you, please, please do not leave me."

Ferox remembered little of the return to Eamon's and most of the time at the Fort had been a long blur of pain and questions about the Orlesians. But he clearly remembered Zevran appearing out of thin air, but he could smell nothing, not even a hint of the sunshine the assassin always smelled of. His face had been too broken to do so. Wynne's healing had repaired much of the damage, constantly applied poultices, even the few cantrips Morrigan knew, sang in the air around him, the weight of Horse on one side, and Zevran's warmth at his back, holding him up as he healed. Those things he remembered, though they too were fuzzy.

Zevran was tender with him, slow and gentle as he bathed Ferox by hand, and his pain was soothed. Groaning as a warm washcloth coasted over his groin, Ferox felt his body stir, long past embarrassment. By now he knew to just ask for what was needed, from food to the chamberpot or a voice telling him stories or another blanket. It was that which made it possible to set aside what had happened, even a little bit. The one other thing he remembered - what was done to him, no matter what it was - was _not Zevran._

"Zevran, please," still impossibly weak, the torturers' art had been applied to him and even though the damage was healed, his body had burned through resources to rebuild bone and muscle, but he managed to lay a hand over the Crow's. "I need you."

"I am here, _querido,_" it was soft, so impossibly soft, yet strong, that voice, those words. "You were not forsaken."

Sighing with relief at the reassurance, his head dropped back to the pillow, "I know. Please, I still..."

Fingers wrapped around him, squeezing firmly, "Is this what you need?"

"Close to you," Ferox mumbled. "I need to be close to you. Make this real - not a dream."

Careful lips touched his thighs as hands spread them, "With my mouth?"

Shaking his head side to side, "You, please."

Drifting as Zevran prepared him, every touch was a gift, constant and unending, the way only the Antivan knew how to give. It was only Zevran with him, insulting voices receded to nothing, they did not exist. Ferox shuddered at warmed cream covered digits working at him, the lean body stretched beside him radiating in the darkness, guiding him upwards to safety. Lips were on his, imparting the taste that was vital to survival and life, his body tingling from anywhere that was touched, reminding him that yes, he was alive. It was disjointed, one moment there was fingers and Zevran was still partially clothed, the next muscular hips were bare and between his legs, what he knew to be bronze thighs holding him open and in position with a mound of covers shoved beneath his backside. Ferox was boneless, providing no resistance, at least none on purpose, the brief dip of a pierced crown into his relaxing hole was quickly pulled back, before nudging in. Each dip and pull out became longer, until Zevran was gaining ground, and Ferox moaned at the gradual and not truly teasing-tease of the stretching.

Summoning the strength to wrap his arms around the elf, Ferox allowed himself to be taken care of, to be shown and made love to. The height difference didn't bother him until then as it would be nice to have his mouth filled with the texture and taste of the sun, however, it was within him and holding him at the same time, but he couldn't hold it in turn. That aggravated him the most, the weakness that made it hard to give as he was given. It almost hurt that he didn't have the strength to curl, to lean in, to gain the flavour of light. Giving up, he gave himself to Zevran, wanting the elf to take pleasure in his body, fighting only to hold him as best he could. The steady and constant stroking pushed him higher, bit by bit, the assassin built the warmth, the sun's rays soaking into his bones, banishing the darkness - there was nothing there, no hands on him other than Zevran's. No body violent with intent to harm, just a healer's touch that was also a lover's. Whimpering the elf's name helplessly, a mouth pressed itself over his heart, tongue licking and lips moving as though it were kissing his mouth. The taste of light wasn't necessary suddenly, not with that there, not with that small gesture that carried such weight. Unable to help the sob, Ferox climaxed, an ebbing and rising flow, and still the mouth kissed him, giving and giving. Gritting his teeth, Ferox clenched his eyes closed, seeking to banish the way his eyes burned, a hand curling in Zevran's spilled gold locks, pressing him closer.

How was it remotely possible for a person to be made entirely of giving?

The intent in the touch, it bled over, seeped in to every nook and cranny. There was no denying it. No wonder Taliesin could kill someone over the thought of losing the chance at such a thing. Zevran's lunging slowed, easing to a bare shifting, giving Ferox time, rubbing his cheek over his chest, quiet noises meant to soothe made. Long fingers wrapped around Ferox's length, massaging it firmly, milking the last of his seed out, thumb rubbing and pressing the underside, something he couldn't help but flex against. Blood began to refill his member under that smooth stroking, causing him to groan, legs twitching as they fought to wrap around Zevran's but could not. Weight pressed down on his chest as the assassin reached back, tugging a leg higher over his, helping Ferox hook it around the thick thew. It began again, that giving, and when there was a rough groan, Ferox's eyes flew open, for a brief, blind second, thinking that it was wrong and different, but the steadiness was there, as broad brown shoulders hunched forward, face pressing and panting into Ferox's side, the pace somehow maintained. But that was a struggle, he could see that it was.

Stroking an ear with his fingers, rumbling, "Don't hold back."

Zevran's face rolled from one side to the other, mouth open, expression twisted and intense, "Ferox...?"

"Don't hold back, Zevran," making his muscles clamp tighter and embracing the thick cock, urging it to explode. He wanted to feel flooded, to feel the evidence of his lover's want and to give them both relief. "Only for you would I beg. Please."

The brow furrowed, trying to think obviously, the knowledge was there, then eyes closed, giving in. His thrusting picked up speed and strength from the incredibly slow and sweet, but was not rough at all, the angle of hips changed, so that constant pressure was placed on the hard bundle of nerves, making them both gasp. A ripple arched the dark honey-gold spine with its black shot artwork, muscles standing in relief, and Ferox nearly sighed as he felt thick heat spill. There was a difference in that too, the way arms embraced him tighter, not grabbing, just holding, hanging on.

Straightening, rocking back, but not away, Zevran ran hands over his chest, the touch almost a massage, and Ferox grabbed a hand with almost obedient fingers, holding it to him, "Don't stop. Not until you're finished."

How long and how many times didn't matter. Afterwards, sweaty and exhausted, Zevran had pulled away, pressing his lips once to every available patch of skin, going so far as to help Ferox roll over. There was no thought of tensing, the sun's warmth could never, ever, be mistaken for anything than what it was, under any circumstance. There was a pair of weak and amused laughs as they both realized that a bath would be necessary rather than just a simple wash from a bucket of warm water.

A tub was called for and Zevran took out the well used vials of firerock that were uncorked any time warmth was needed. They were long since modified so that strips of leather with weights on the end to make it so they could be pulled free easily from a bucket, a mug, pot or in this case, a tub. Zevran helped Ferox into the tub, sinking in with him and both soaked until feet were pruned. Another vial had been added at some point, a few drops from it, then a larger vial was emptied of the last of its contents. Oil spread over the steaming surface of the water, a combination that Ferox couldn't identify beyond it smelling much like Zevran did when freshly bathed.

Leaning back against the rest, draping an arm around the elf's middle, "Other than you, what have I missed?"

"There were Tevinter slavers in the Alienage, letters signed from Loghain giving them permission to..._procure_merchandise." Nimble fingers rubbed the spaces between Ferox's knuckles, "Many elves have already been shipped and are...not likely to ever be seen on these shores again."

"It gets more and more difficult to see the sense in this...the reasoning he is using. Loghain is not like this."

"Perhaps," there was reserve in Zevran's tone.

"Howe was the Arl of Denerim, you would think that after obtaining Highever, he would be done...this must have been his doing. Remember the elf...Soris?" Although he could see the young man's face, frankly Ferox was guessing at the name.

"Was put there by Vaughn Uriel," Zevran said. "And once his father died at Ostagar, someone must have locked him away for whatever reason."

"But they both were in the _Arl's_ estate..._Howe's_estate," pointed out reasonably.

The assassin shifted onto his side between Ferox's legs, wrapping one around his. "It _became_ Howe's estate, _querido_, along with any prisoners Vaughn had cooped up in there. No doubt Howe usurped Vaughn, saying he was dead, killed by elves, or brigands, or dead with grief, or whatever reason - it matters very little. Vaughn had...invited himself to a wedding in the Alienage, there was a scene, and he and some friends kidnapped many females, including two brides. Soris and the other groom stormed the estate, seeking to reclaim what was not Vaughn's. One died, and many guards as well. How easy would it be to claim that Vaughn died in this attack, _amora_? Extremely."

"Crack down on the Alienage and deport the inhabitants... Still sounds like Howe's doing."

Zevran protested, heaving a deep sigh, "No, it sounds like a noble who is seeking a 'quiet' way of doing justice to those who killed a noble. While still being pragmatic enough to know that actively and obviously killing the lot would cause unrest. So, why not turn a profit and make these killers of nobles pay? It is far too logical. It is the sort of justice extracted when open justice cannot be taken. Instigated by Howe, oh yes, locking away Vaughn and framing the elves? Yes. But the decision of what to _do_ with them...? No. I know he is your hero, but I have known a great deal of good men and a great deal of bad men. I will tell you this - there is nothing more dangerous than a man with convictions. Because he is always right and capable of _anything_."

Rubbing both eye sockets at once, Ferox made a very frustrated "Arrugh! I don't know anymore. But I'd like to hear the reasoning before kicking him off a Tower, chopping off his head, or ramming a sword through his side. I think Anora is lying when she opens her mouth, but some things ring true too. Maker, I just want to end this stupid Blight, not play with Queens, Kings, werewolves and mages."

"Loghain had a crown for himself made," Zevran's lips pursed before kissing Ferox's arm. "However it has...gone missing, hmn?"

"I did not sign up for this, frell, I didn't _even_ sign up for this." Ferox tugged on the amulet around his neck.

"Nor do we choose to be born, _amora._ We do not choose our family, our station, whether we kill our mothers while being birthed, or whether we are sold like cattle. What we _can_ choose is how to live with it, how to react, how to make it work rather than hinder," rolling over in the tub, the Crow gently pressed the amulet back down to his chest. "Warden, noble, man, Cousland, slave, Crow, warrior, rogue...what is the choice in any of these? Perspective. That is all. To be angry with it, or to find a way to your _own_sense of self. Tell me, if your family had been left untouched, and the Blight happened, and this Duncan came, requesting and calling for those who could fight to Join - would you have left them without your skills? Your people to be devoured as you only protected your own areas?"

Ferox had considered this, hadn't liked that Rory wanted to go, had figured, hoped that it would only be for a short time. "He came for Rory. I was to be left alone...left behind to care for the land."

"He came for Rory, but then, no one _knew_ it was a Blight. And honestly, would you have let Rory go without you if you had half a chance? To put himself in harms way, fighting for the country and its people? The people _are_ the land. A nation is not squares and plots, _amora_, it is only a noble's thinking if that is the thought in your head," gold eyes searched him deeply. "But it is not the truth - soil may give and house, but if there are no people, what is there of a nation? Nothing. If you had had a chance, if Duncan had asked, and the holdings could be watched over by a likely very capable teyrna, would you have denied the nation your skills? Would you have denied Rory yourself at his side, protecting his flank?"

"That's the point." He nearly rubbed his eyes again, "Duncan didn't ask. There was no choice."

"I would not have asked either frankly - allow an entire noble bloodline to be slaughtered, gain no Warden recruit, he made the only decision he could. I know you, _querido_, you would have stayed, and you would have been slaughtered like everyone else. If it was the only way that _something_could be saved - I would have taken it. Perhaps it is a pragmatic peasant's thought to not stand on honour and this or that choice rather than the cold fact of what I knew was coming, even if no one else believed." It was earnest, "He saved you, whether you wanted it or not, whether you had a choice or not. And you have saved not just myself, but many others, and will save even more. It does not make anything right or correct, but life is not always fair, it does not always give us a choice on a neat invitation served on a silver platter. We have to make and take what choices we can for ourselves when we can. Hate him all you wish, but I cannot be anything but grateful he dragged you away from foolish honour that would have dictated you lose the battle and your life needlessly." His voice lowered, "You forgave me for something I did that took away your choice, something I did that was to try and help you and not just myself, even if it did help me in some way. Perhaps one day you can forgive him also."

Firmly, "And so I will hear Loghain out."

"I did not say to not hear him out, _amora._ But it is interesting that two men whose actions have wound up affecting so very many receive such diametrically opposite reactions from you." A slim finger touched him, "By Duncan's actions, you survived, and have saved hundreds at least if not many thousands, will save a nation, if not many nations. Yet you revile him. Loghain, who has sold off portions of his populace, caused a civil war, had you _tortured_, locked his own daughter away, and has sanctioned 'any means necessary' tactics upon his fellow nobles..."

Hearing the hint of anger in his own voice, Ferox tried to moderate his tone, "Duncan didn't stick around for questioning after being drug off the battlefield. You didn't see him kill a recruit who hesitated to drink; it was drink or die. I did see the army quit Ostagar, but I did not see Loghain at the Fort. Howe could have been responsible for the slavers and Anora, who I don't trust and has given me the dirty eye since I first met her as a child, she was at Howe's estate. The one thing that really bothers me is Cauthrien, who was also at the estate...she is Loghain's, without question."

"Any means necessary takes many forms, _querido._ The difference is, is one is a hero of yours and one made you grow up." Zevran looked away from him. "Howe was _dead_ when you were captured. And Howe may have instigated, but are you trying to tell me that Howe did everything wrong, that every single vile action taken at Loghain's order was truly from Howe's lips instead? No. _Amora_, if we continue this line of conversation I will become unreasonable. While I pray I am wrong and you are right, I do not have the luxury of such naivete as it has been stripped away by nearly twice as many years as you have walked this land."

"Not naivete." A deep sigh, riddled with dread, "Hope. Hope that the nightmare isn't real, even with a sickening feeling that it is all very horribly real."

His lover hung his head, "As you say then, I will keep my words on it to myself. Just do not expect me to believe anything he utters either."

Changing the subject, "I either need to put some clothes on eventually or you need to do something for me."

Zevran rolled around once more in the tub, limbs lightly slick and the water sloshing, "No clothes for you as you are going to be put back to bed, but what is your desire, _amora_? For you I can be easily convinced to do many things. Including darning your socks."

"That sounds promising... Wait. What? Darning my socks?"

"They had holes," shrugging. "It is simple - you take the loops and add new yarn, it is called darning in Common. Just do not tell Wynne, Leliana _or_Alistair - especially not him - that I can do that, otherwise I would have piles and piles of filthy, holey, disgusting socks to fix. Especially since Wynne will announce that she is no longer fixing holey garments. Oh, and your smalls had a frayed end so that is fixed also... Although Leliana's knickers might not be an unpleasant repair..."

"What? Wait a minute. No, I'm not going to ask that. My mother would have liked you. Sewing, it's part of taking care of your gear. Unfortunately, my heel repairs are always lacking...much easier with a block." Remembering what he was going to ask, "Umm, but what I really need is a lie."

A brow arched very high, nearly to the hairline, and at the corners, full lips tightened, in an odd purse of vague incredulity. "A lie? And also, if you were supposed to know how to - it seemed nearly every night while you were on watch I had at least four new tears that needed mending..."

"No heel block, I told you. Anyway, Eamon came by, which is why I knew about the Alienage. Tell Anora that we will support her bid..well, her continued bid for the throne. Nobody's going to put Alistair forward, not singly, not as a pair, just her."

"There will still be problems - tell her that if she and Alistair marry, it will give her claim better legitimacy, and she will have a hero for a husband, and someone who is not going to stray, _and_who will do whatever he is told. She need not know that no such thing is intended," shrugging.

"Eamon says she can't stand him, frankly, I don't think she can stand anyone. Whatever works, but I'm guessing, she doesn't want anybody looking over her shoulder. Even as a kid she could do everything on her own, didn't need help."

His lover grunted, "She can if you know how to approach her, hmn? She may not _want_, but she still is a politician. Alistair's presence will give her monarchy a stronger footing. Besides, she cannot do everything on her own - she requires an heir. One with Theiren or some other old family connections would be best. Even yourself. But as I _said_, it is to be a lie, and to make it look like we still wish something - she would be suspicious if told that no one else wished for power, _amora_. It is a peculiar thing about people in power - they think everyone wants to take theirs. This way she will think that she can double-cross us, that she has outsmarted us, as all of us are 'too stupid' to think without Eamon holding our hands, and that he is 'too old' to think clearly."

"Fine, put me forward if necessary, because I'll not have Alistair r-u-n-n-o-f-t to hide under his bed, should word get back that we've suggested that he marry Anora. It's going to be bad enough when he hears the truth of it."

"Mph, you might also wish to say that you are going to put me aside, else she might be...displeased. I believe she and I got off on the wrong footing," there was an almost maliciously pleased glint in his eye.

"And here I thought you were going to lie for me while I lazed around in bed. Does this mean I can skip down to the library for a new book too?"

"Ah, in that case, yes, I should go and do it, even better," a flash of teeth.

"I wouldn't put you aside, even if she were the last woman in Ferelden, and we were the last two men. There is something wrong with her," a near shudder. "Damaged goods that somehow causes the hair on the back of my neck to stand up, and what that thing is, is not something I wish to spend any thought on."

A nipple quickly kissed, then his lips, "Then do not. I will deal with her. Meanwhile, let me enjoy your splendid state by giving you a massage and us eating some of that meat and cheese brought by Morrigan so thoughtfully earlier...and then - a nap. I am in need of being ah...the phrase sounds odd in Common - but, on you like white on rice." He paused, "Rice is white, _amora._

Ferox gave a rumbled laugh, "I think you already achieved that today. As I do not believe you could have gotten any closer."

Zevran let out one of those purring little growls, nuzzling at Ferox's neck, inhaling deeply, "I am greedy and wish more. Particularly if I have to deal with that frigid cunt again."

Curiosity, "What do you mean, 'again'?"

"I had to haul her off from Howe's estate," shrugging as he cuddled closer. "I also had to gain information on Fort Drakon, so that you need not spend a single second longer there than I could prevent... Two and a half days was plenty long enough for you to be in captivity. However, when I left, she was rather displeased with my leave-taking as I was in a rush to do far more important things than exchange further pleasantries. To say that I relish politely sticking it to her as Oghren would say, is to put it mildly. If she had stepped forward rather than watch with those calculating eyes - mph. You would not have suffered. So, since I cannot take my pound of flesh, I will take a nibble, yes?"

Something was not right about what Zevran had just said, but Ferox had already more than burned up his little energy for the day and that was before trying to argue with the ever reasonable assassin, all the while trying to remember that Anora needed to be misled - no not misled, lied to - reminding himself to call it what it was. Wrinkling his forehead, not quite unlike the mabari, "If I just pretend to understand and nod knowingly, will you pat me on the head and let it go by...or in the alternative, help me get my pruned self out of this tub?"

"Mmn, but of course, _amora_," said with a warm smile, that cutting edge gleam gone, replaced by security and care.

The day of Landsmeet finally arrived, Ferox was well prepared to stand on his own two feet, for a time, but fighting was out of the question. The anger and fury at his weakness had him wrapped in a layer of snow... Mostly he was silent, but when answers were given or questions asked, his voice was crisp with frost on autumn leaves. As he dressed, Ferox considered the pieces on the chessboard.

When they first arrived in Denerim, they had located a house which Alistair thought he remembered as belonging to his sister. To his surprise and excitement, Goldanna was still living there there...but the reunion did not go as planned. Afterwards, Ferox had told the disappointed Alistair, "Everyone is out for themselves. You should learn that." And an innocent Warden had changed, hardened somehow. Ferox couldn't believe that despite everything, Duncan's death, Isolde lying, Eamon's patronizing, finding Cailan on the bridge, Connor and the Demon most especially, none of that had affected Alistair...but a simple comment pointing out the obvious, had strengthened the young man's backbone. It just goes to show, one never knows the turning point for children and the weak.

Perhaps he would not be so surprised about the situation he would soon find himself in then. Zevran and a dresser brought Alistair Cailan's newly restored and polished armor. Ferox assumed from the yelling that had come from the other room that Alistair was less than pleased, after all, no one had worn that armour because they knew how it would look. Ferox did not point out that it was also presumptuous to use the sword, even without its shield, as it was a link to his missing father instead of a brother, who likely did not know him. Alistair did not think anything more of it...or at least he didn't question it, which was essentially the same thing as he always talked aloud revealing his thoughts whether the listener wanted to hear them or not. As a boy, Ferox would have enjoyed the young Warden's company, but right now, he was a chess piece that needed to take his place.

Anora was preening in front of the mirror, by all reports, Erlina twisting her hair into intricate and ornate braids. She had been lulled into believing that he, Ferox A. Cousland was falling all over himself in his long suppressed desire to be her Prince Consort. He would rather have a sword through his head, rather step into a hole in the ground that opened over the Deep Trenches, rather negotiate a trade deal with Bhelen holding only with a rock and two sheep, rather kiss a werewolf...the one with big ears and really big teeth and bad breath...before _ever_ touching that woman. He would likely use a rusty fork to scoop out his eyes and saw off his genitals than have to see or touch her nude, which, if he _had_wanted to be Consort - he would have to do.

Leliana and Zevran had spent time in the tavern with the nobles who had gathered there, swaying those who could be moved, doing favors for those who needed a show of faith, a little gift here, a little push there, information gathering, even the Chantry could be used to assist their cause. All in all the pieces that could be manipulated and placed to the greatest benefit to the cause of stability, and thus the cause of defeating the Blight - had been put where they were needed.

Under his assassin's orders, Ferox had rested until he grew tired of his shape pressed into the mattress and changed sides. Read until he woke up hours later after only a paragraph or two. Laying awake staring at the ceiling, he couldn't imagine going in the Landsmeet without his father, he and Fergus would alternate who accompanied Father, learning the business of politics and their place in Thedas. Ferox would not be going in as a Teryn or the proxy of the Teryn, he was a Grey Warden with no place there, no vote, no real voice other than a petitioner come before the crown.

Whispering to the ceiling, "Maker, I never wanted this. I knew my place, I knew what was intended for me...some minor position supporting Fergus. That's what the trial of running the Terynir was supposed to be, before everything got all frelled up."

His long hair tightly braided, dressing in a set of leathers, ones he could actually wear all day without tiring too much, Ferox looked at the heavy dragon plate and wished they had left Anora to Howe's tender mercies. He didn't believe for a second that she was in danger. Perhaps of having to marry the old coot Howe... Was his wife dead or did she just up and r-u-n-n-o-f-t? Wouldn't blame her if she did. If they hadn't gone there, Ferox would still be wearing the beautiful armour he could almost dance in, wear the massive Starfang on his back, large and impressive, looking as if nothing could hurt him. Instead he had gone, despite the urging in his gut to turn away, gone to something he would do nearly anything to forget ever happened ...horrible things that Zevran tried day by day, moment by moment, touch by touch to ease or erase.

Hating his condition, briefly Ferox considered walking away, right now, just grabbing his rucksack, leaving behind what would tire him within a mile or two only taking the leathers on his back and the light family sword at his side. But it was an idle daydream, as idle as Zevran's imaginary plantation, the orchard with peaches, apricots, almonds, olive trees, oranges, sheep and goats grazing underneath. A pond with fish, a pig or two, a shade tree, a covered porch for napping or visiting while sipping cold glasses of mint tea...all pretend. It was all a story they told themselves just so the pair of them could complete daily tasks of taking out the trash, killing and interrogating bandits, surviving to the night where another piece was added to the story, a small detail of a copper weather vane or a door painted turquoise. Then wake up and do it all again.

To have to question Loghain on his reasoning, to have asked Zevran, who had a very distant and frightening look in his eye, to stay his hand until the answers had been received and considered... It all hinged on today, the throne, the army, the general, the civil war, all of this would supposedly help end the Blight. Buckling his boots, Ferox left his cloak, the extra weight would only tire him quicker and it was going to be a close thing to get through the day as it was, especially with the added walk. It was still too soon and at the same time, too late. Sitting back on the bed, he longed to return to sleep, to call this day over, but he waited for Zevran to return as promised, as his assassin gathered and organized the pieces according to the plan.

His lover entered, a tray in hand with what was clearly a meal for two, and an odd teapot, "I prevailed upon the old buzzard to lend me something to fortify ourselves, hmn?" The tray was set down with a click and his assassin insisted on helping him to a chair, "_Amora_, please, the day will be long and hard, and I will have few opportunities to hold you."

Getting comfortable, Ferox accepted the elf's assistance, but stopped him long enough to get the taste of sunlight he needed first. "Well what is it?"

"It is good, that is what it is," graceful hands poured a thick brackish coloured tea from the pot, to which milk was quickly added to and brown crystals stirred in. The cup was passed to him, "I find that taking pleasure in something small like this can help get through the bitter, _amora._A taste of my homeland to bring us a blast of true sunshine compared to what is here."

Ferox didn't say anything, though he wished to counter, to say that a cup of tea was nothing compared to his light. Instead he took a sip, surprised at how thick and sweet it was, having to pause as a pleased chuckle came along with Zevran hitching a leg on Ferox's armrest. The meal was short, but the taste of thick and strangely dark coffee _did_fortify him. Either that or it was the contented, nearly meditative quality Zevran exuded as he took long sips, refilling their cups as they emptied. He remembered Oriana once or twice when she and Fergus had first been married, lamenting the prohibitive cost of coffee in Ferelden if it could even be found let alone of a 'decent' quality. Ferox hadn't understood the draw, having tasted the Orlesian dark and bitter brew during one of the trips to the west. However, the fragrant tasting drink Zevran served was an animal of a different breed entirely.

Beside him, the assassin's armour whispered and the harness jingled faintly with each step, like a cat with a bell collar, the slap of the leather skirt against thighs. It was something to focus on, making himself follow that pace, concentrating on forcing each step to be taken in sync with the Crow. And suddenly they were hiking up the stairs to the palace, to the loud sound of the Landsmeet arguing as they travelled down the hall. Cauthrien stopped them, it would have been easy to rouse her to attack, but the defeated look when she said Loghain had changed - that someone who had been close to and worshipped the old general... It chilled Ferox to the bone.

Zevran had laughed when Ferox chose him as the one to fight Loghain, the irony not lost on either of them at the choice. The entire time, Ferox had wished that he had been fit enough to face the Ferelden general, to not have sent his lover forth against such a large opponent. But they both knew logically that Zevran was the one who stood a chance while being able to inflict great wounds and would be able to hold back from killing Loghain - so long as he kept his rare to rouse temper. Ferox had warned Zevran, with a kiss to the scarred lip, to be careful before they left Eamon's estate. Alistair or Sten would have neither compunction for self-control. Sten would view it as survival of the fittest, Alistair had a grudge. Palms sweating while he stared forward coldly as Zevran circled with Loghain, left, then right, a dance as regal as any courtly measure, the first strikes, testing, probing. The shield slammed forward clipping the jutting chin. When that happened, the laughter that rang out was almost joyous, sending Ferox through the roof - his lover had done it on purpose. After that was a mad whirling dervish of action, action that there was no hope Loghain could keep up with. Armoured legs were swept out from the floor, sending the great man landing ingloriously with a clatter. But Zevran danced back, nearly hopping in place, taunting without words, while 'politely' giving Loghain time to regain his feet. And so it went, until finally, the shield with Gwaren's coat of arms emblazoned on it had been split and tossed aside, what little Ferox could see of Zevran's bloodied smile was feral. Shoulder and head lowered like a bull readying to charge, there was no way possible that someone as slim and slight, no matter how muscular, could topple a charging man with nearly six inches and easily a hundred pounds of muscle, another forty of armour, to fall. With an odd flick, Zevran sank down lower just before impact, his shoulder hooking in the juncture of thigh and groin, hoisting Loghain and throwing him over his back, a last kick delivered in reverse making him sprawl on his back like a turtle.

With a whirl, the Crow was on him, too fast for Ferox to call a halt as Loghain yielded, his sword darting forward full force, only to stop right before slamming into a neck, sharp tip digging in just enough to make blood spill as Loghain stared up, utter defeat on his face. "I accept."

"I choose Alistair Theirin to be the King of Ferelden." The glare from Anora could have cut steel, thankfully the blow slid off his shoulders to Zevran to gut him for his lie, but the smile was in place and it was far from sardonic - almost inviting. "Lock Anora in the Tower in case none us survive and a leader is still needed." Alistair was shocked to say the least, he should have seen it coming, just from the armour he was wearing that day, but those who knew him, traveled with him for these nearly two years, knew the young Warden was surprised.

When it came to the issue of Loghain, Riordan stepped forward to make a plea for the general's life, to make him a Warden. The quiet man didn't say much, but the urging that something more important was at stake rang in his voice. There was an odd pleading for understanding in that gaze, urging him to do more than what many would consider a deserved sentence. Ferox wasn't the sort to not listen to such a thing if it could be helped.

Ferox looked at his former hero. Quietly, but firmly so all in the grand hall could hear, he announced, "Loghain will seek redemption by taking the Joining." At the roar of the nobility and the look on Alistair's enraged face, he held up a hand, "The question isn't 'What has Loghain done?', as many who deserve death have not died and many who deserve life are no longer living. My purpose is not to be the judge of the good and the evil and to dispense justice as I see fit. My purpose now is to save this land and these people from the Blight. If I could do this by stepping off a tower, this minute, I would be climbing the stairs right now. If the price to save Ferelden is to make the most evil amongst us a hero and to be adored by the people, I will gladly do that. I will not sacrifice any assets that we need to kill the Archdemon to satisfy my sense of honor. Let us use every weapon at our disposal to defeat the Blight. Only a fool fights in a burning house. Any action we take now that is not against the Blight is part of an agenda for another day. We can settle our differences later."

"If Loghain can kill three darkspawn before they kill him, killing him here is a waste. For me, the question of whether of not Loghain lives or dies depends on whether or not he will fight and will an army, that this general knows far better than his own child, be useful in holding back a raging river of darkspawn. Absolutely. Every person we kill now is one less to hold back the darkness. Anyone that agrees to fight the darkspawn, fights shoulder to shoulder with me."

Alistair was furious and after sputtering his anger and renouncing the Wardens - but not the crown - stormed out to sulk. Alistair the pawn had become Alistair the soon to be King. His piece was in place and there were no further moves necessary.

Zevran said nothing, as though some part of him had expected the action and taken whatever pound of flesh he could excise while he could, but the blankness in his poured honey eyes wasn't good.

Pulling Loghain to his feet, Ferox called out, "The civil war ends here. It is time for us to stand together against the darkness."

XXX

**AN2: To get the latest updates and full chapters, subscribe to my DreamWidth account, a link to it is on my profile. Subscribing comes with the expectation of occasional concrit. Briala and I both are seeking to better our writing, and we can only do this with your input. Chapter three onwards will be only partially updated here on FFN, with excerpts. If you do not have a DreamWidth account, PM me and we'll work something out. For a time they have free access accounts, after that, invite codes are necessary, so sign up while you can! I believe this special lasts until the end of January, so get them while they last. Thanks so much for reading thus far, and I look forward to seeing you on DW. **


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